Wild is the Wind
by Jasdenmort
Summary: Follows ADWD, Alayne unexpectedly meets the Hound. Life may not be a song, but her songs are no farce.
1. Strongsong

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:** To post or not to post, not an easy question given all the SanSan fic I have enjoyed here. The more posts I read the more I see my own story, hope this will be enough. I have tried to stay true to GRRM story line, and welcome corrections, suggestions, etc.  
__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content in later chapters, the Hound is not a _subtle_ man. _

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Strongsong**

**Alayne**

Alayne awoke to another cold morning in what was known locally as the East Pan. The wind off of the Bay of Crabs cut like a knife and made this hilly harbor town feel even colder than her Northern memories. Winter was coming and the warm winds that blew in from the east sea were growing rare. She could scarcely imagine what the temperatures would be in the mountainous Eyrie and conceded she had one more reason to be thankful to have departed.

She quickly dressed in layers of cotton and gray wool. Her boots were well broken in at present, as were her feet and hands. Her leaner arms and legs comfortably fit her new life. Her brown hair was freshly dyed in a poultice of pomegranate, oak apples and oil. It was pulled back today and hung in a tight long braid, damping the waves she spun in it each night. Her face was overly scrubbed to red and blotchy in an attempt to mar the perfection of her delicate skin. _I don't belong here either_, Alayne thought. Now was not the time for such thoughts. She suffered too many harsh lessons to allow herself to hope and dream as she used to. Now she had only one hope, one foolish dream; one that she would only acknowledge during song or prayer. And tonight she would sing; sing for a broken brother as promised and for her one dream.

The Strongsong Inn took in travelers and served a basic meal morning through night. Located over a mile east of the town harbor, most of their patrons were outer townsfolk or regular travelers who filled the hall each night for drink and song. All musicians and singers were welcome to perform upon the small platform or to join in at will. Alayne thought she never wanted to hear another song again after her time at the Eyrie, but at the Strongsong it was the music that seemed to be the only real part of her life.

The local mason, Clay, was a gifted string player and having no wife, Clay came to the Inn for dinner each night and accompanied the singers and musicians in most every song. Clay had told her of his younger brother recently returned home. He was said to be a skilled flute player and had finally agreed to come to sup. Like most, his brother had seen too much of this war and was not adapting well to his old life. Sympathetic to his tale, Alayne promised to sing a song as a welcome just for him. Surprised, Clay asked, "Are you sure? It will be the first."

"If your bother comes I will sing 'Blue Bells of My Home' just for him. And if you are ready for one of the new songs, I would like to sing 'So Long'… for me." Alayne smiled at the thought of singing one of her own songs. Clay mentioned that he preferred 'the Wild song', as he called it, but she wasn't brave enough for that one yet. She hoped that 'So Long' would please the crowd as much as 'Rough Husband' had over the past moon; she always wanted her songs to be perfect.

Nearly ready for the morn, Alayne's mind errantly strayed to what young Robin would be doing this day; though in truth she cared little. It shamed her admit she had no love for the boy, only pity. At first it was Petyr's wish that she remain in the Vale and care for the little Lord while he plotted her future as well as his own. Petyr continued to assure her that he had things well in hand, but the design of securing Winterfell through blood was losing favor; the Stark girls were too illusive.

Petyr himself was becoming more and more suspect among Lords of the Vale and Alayne thought he may have misjudged the balance of their greed versus their trust in each other. Alayne knew she would never be able to scheme and plan and read peoples desires as Lord Baelish did, but she paid rigorous attention when she could. Petyr had proven to be a survivor and well versed in all games to which she had been utterly unmindful. Under his patronage, she had become much better at lies and small manipulations. She had learned to watch and listen in a way that went beyond her practiced courtesies. And she was now quite adept and mixing her falsehoods with larger doses of truth, if only to have a sound flooring to dance back to if questioned too harshly. _In the game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own_, his words echoed.

"I promise you, sweetling, that I would love nothing more than to have you with me on this passage. But we must wait before revealing your true name. You will be safe here in the Vale, and our time apart will not be so long."

"I understand, father," Alayne said as he took her in his arms and pulled her too close in to his lap. "It is only that I am scared for what is to come. I understand why you plan to leave the Eyrie in Lord Nestor's hands; my concern is that it may be improper to leave me with him as well." Before he could object she added, "People would assume…and with sweet Robin so very ill…" Alayne pressed on as she watched Petyr consider her words.

"There are few options, Alayne, we have a year, maybe less, to secure my holdings and your own. The time it would take…" Petyr paused. Alayne held her breath, was it too much to hope that she could be away from the pawing of both Littlefinger and the little Lord? "I have an uncle in the Saltpans we can discuss. You would be safe, but somewhat far from the courtesies and comfort you are accustomed to. It would not be a lady's life, Alayne. You would not be free to wander as you do at the Eyrie. _And_ you would be expected to work."

Alayne steeled her expression from the hope swelling inside her. "If your uncle has use of me, I would be happy to do as you ask, father." From the perverse, pride filled smile on Littlefinger's face, it was clear that he understood they were following her will as well as his own. It was not until she retired for the evening that she thought to wonder what kind of work would be expected.

[12.05.29]


	2. Seven Deaths

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:** Shifts in time and thought may be hard to follow; it's purposefully done and welcome recommendations.  
__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Seven Deaths**

**The Hound**

His head was fuzzy. _Must be from drink_, he thought. His mind was busy methodically following his sword; _lunge and retreat, a few more and the little bastard will be finished_. He pulled out slowly, then followed with one quick thrust deep inside her and indistinctly groaned, "Ahh," _close, real_ _close_.

The redhead made her own noise, an echo of pleasure. With his right hand, Sandor smacked her arse, returned hand to hip and warned her through gritted teeth, "Be silent." With his next thrust between her legs he could not stop from laughing out loud realizing, _she will not have like that_. This bird didn't much like taking orders. Whore or not, Petit fancied herself in charge, and it gave her a strength of character. Sandor liked that about her and he had given over to her somewhere between the first few minutes and the first few moons. She had been strong enough to see him again and stronger still to ask a favor. So he let her have her way, within bounds of course, and he took a fickle delight in defying her with reminders _he_ was the one who allowed it.

His leg was really tiring, must have fought harder than he thought today to feel that pain. "Arg!" A flash of scratchy shit brown pain seared across the back of his neck. _I've been fucking cut_! Gods he hated bastards that did not keep their metal honed. His head was filling with sand and his body dwindling; he'd best finish himself and the girl before the wine took him. He'd worry about getting back to the castle later.

He shifted his weight aft to lower his body and extend his reach. He moved his left hand over the top of her waist, and reached down the line of her fleshy stomach. Her lower back arched with a snap when he reached the hairline, and she pressed in to him at a sharper angle. A credit to her work, this reply from Petit's hips always appeared reflex. In few moments she would finish the job for the both of them; lunging to her own rhythm, the rock of the tide that made one forget; back and forth, between his cock and his hand.

Petit was very good at making him forget and he meant to be obliging. Yet he distantly recalled there was one more thing she wanted. _Hit me_! "What?" he asked unfocused, but Petit ignored him and slammed herself against him again. _Bloody shit is in my head. Just finish it dog!_ As he slid his fingers over the wet warmth of her trade, he tried to rally. _Just stay upright a little longer_. "Make your noises now," he growled in to the back of her head. She smelled of citrus and something flowery. _Finish it!_ The scent of her hit hard and blearily took him back to a different time, a previous union, when he had asked her why she talked so damn much.

"Many reasons that are none of your business, big man," he recalled her taunt. "But for you, I will tell you one important thing. Women talk because we have no freedom. We cannot go where we wish, do as we wish; we cannot even speak freely."

Without pity the Hound laughed, "You seem pretty free to me."

"No, big man. Not free like you; not like any man. Women are restricted inside and out; imprisoned by men and therefore it from necessity that when we give, it is to receive. You cannot blame us that. To refuse to answer our questions or share your stories, you cruelly make our lives even smaller."

He knew the strong survived, as well as those they protected. And from what he'd known of women, he bitterly felt their circumstance was more than suitably earned. But Petit was too good to him to argue his point. "I do as I like," Sandor simply said.

"Yes, it is just so. One more important reason I talk," Petit said with a playful smile. "You will need more than those hands to keep a wife happy, I think. You, dog, will have to speak…and nicely." The Hound roared with laughter. He was hard pressed to name anyone who made him laugh as much as this wench.

*******/*******

His mirth however became frenzied and then twisted ugly when he realized the body presently below him had gone rigid. On her two hands and two knees he could not see her face but he knew something was wrong. Once unleashed, Petit was never noiseless, never still. And yet she was now, and he was still pounding his flesh in to the immobile body on the bed.

_You can make your noises now_, he tried a second time but no words came from his throat. Her tear stained face, distorted by pain and fear, turned to look upon him. It was not Petit.

When her deep blue eyes met his, she started screaming, a terror so loud that he could not even hear her shrieks. He could only feel them slamming through his skull like a war hammer wielded to the beat of his slowing heart. _Oh Gods, did I hurt you, little bird_?

*******/*******

"Show me!" He could see nothing but pain now, swirling red-yellow flashes, and Sandor screeched three long notes to damn the world, and to make his little bird say she was fine; that it was nothing. "Did I hurt you!" he screamed even louder.

"Take it easy my friend. You're the one hurt. You need to stay still. You're fighting the wound to your leg and neck and a fever as well. You must let me finish." _Where is little bird? Did this old man take her too_?

"Where's my…" Sandor started, stopping when he recognized the man and the seven hells of his reality. He had been found near death by the cruel bastard before him, some fucking do-gooder, dragging out his end to make him suffer seven more deaths. "You again! Just leave me, damn it! I'd rather die dreaming of whores than with your hands on me." The man ignored him while continuing to clean his wounded leg. It was excruciating and Sandor shouted a third time. "When I survive, _friend_, you die slow, and bloody," spat the Hound.

"I found you along the Trident. You spoke of a girl, a wolf and a bird. But there was no one with you and no signs of anyone when I arrived." He remain quiet for a time then finished, "I am sorry for your pain, friend. Let it take you, back to the comfort of your women. You will need your strength."

*******/*******

But before he could tell the old man to bugger off, his little bird was back kneeling at the edge of the forest. He gazed up at the sky, so blue he noted, even the grass, bark and nettles looked shades of blue. Her back was to him, but it was _her_. He felt every curve of her as only he knew them. Like a custom hilt, she had been made for his hands alone. She looked different from the girl he watched so furtively at Kings Landing. She was leaner now, and a woman grown; yet still he knew so many things about this young woman. Four things came immediately to mind: _she glides when she's happy and stitches when she's sad; she stomps her tiny foot when in anger and tells me things with a tiny wordless kiss_. _Oh Gods, did I hurt you Birdy?_ Sandor also knew why she crouched so awkwardly now before the pine; her belly over four months grown.

He realized she would not turn around or give answer to his question if he did not speak aloud. Struggling for words, he was saturated in fear, weighted down by the truth that he did not want the damn answer. "Show me," he croaked dimly.

"Darling, I assure you these are fine. I believe _I_ know more about edible plants than you ever shall. Alas, a skill worthy of a gravestone mayhap. What do you think?" When he did not respond, she glanced back with a lighthearted smile. _Was she playing with him? She had no reason and no Gods damn right to play him false!_ But he heard her voice in his head again, _Sandor please stop you're hurting me._ Did she fear him so utterly now? Was her every look and every breath a lie now?

"No. Your arms; show them to me. Now," he pressed in anger. _How could she think to keep anything from him_? A storm of fury and self-hatred pressed behind his eyelids.

Demurely the little bird chirped, "I'm sorry, darling. I made a great mistake by not saying anything, didn't I? It was nothing, truly. So I thought best to say nothing. You must see my reason. Look," she began pulling up the sleeves on her woolen brown dress. He saw four round bruises on her left, and was horrified; not by the green and yellow marks he had made, but by his deep feeling of relief; _he'd done worse; hurt her so much worse…hurt her so many times before._

*******/*******

"Stop!" he screamed at the shadowy hole of pain he once called his body. To his right was a man, staring at him as if to ask what came next. "Come on then!" he shouted at the stranger making a threating fist with five meaty fingers. Recognition woke, _that fucking bastard_, "You! Bugger you! Get me Petit before the stupid bird kills me!" He tried to rise but his vision went black and unnatural again.

*******/*******

_Hit me_! As asked, he smacked her with an open hand, though he took no pleasure in it. Under the strike to her face and head, Petit buckled to one knee. It took six long beats of his heart before she shook off the blow, looked up at his sneer and said, "Get the big man some more wine." The lethal smile she gave him back plainly showed her grit; he liked that about her, and so he howled in laugher. _I know how to play my part too, _he thought.

[12.05.29]


	3. Work and Play

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N: **Thanks for the support. Regarding comment on improbable barmaid, duly noted. When reading I also note decisions that don't seem in character or convenient storylines, which this is to tie in songs, reunion and wind. I will look at my direction and minimize. Sincere thanks for your input!  
__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content._

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**Chapter 3 – Work and Play**

**Alayne**

Alayne completed her routine by putting on a scarf, primarily shades of blue, the last piece of her daily masquerade, before drifting down the hall to awaken the children. As Petyr had promised, her life now was far from noble comfort. Everything in her wardrobe was so plain and drab. The scarf was her one indulgence that also served to keep her hair clean since there was no one to tend to it but herself. It was a dyed cotton, not a fine as silk, but soft just the same and embroidered by her own hand. She had acquired some rough threads and carefully made sure that her stitching was somewhat unskilled though pretty; surely the Septa would understand.

Preparing herself for the day, Alayne tried to keep focused on tasks alone. Memories were too close at hand each morning when she woke to her current surroundings, and her dreams were too upsetting still. Past, present and future; her life was a lie. She loved her parents for the idyllic life they had once provided, but some days she wanted to blame them moreover. She had known little and less about the way of things outside Winterfell; now her family was dead and all she had left was the blame of their absence.

_It's the world that's ugly, not me_, the Hound had told her. She thought him so horrible, his thoughts more repulsive than his scars. But he had the truth of it. She had learned too slow how it was that he watched over her, protected her; his horrible words were a protection as well. She regretted not following him that night. _No one would hurt you again…I'd kill them_. He had come reeking of blood and smoke and it would have been madness to run away with such a violent and cruel man. The price he might demand was beyond her comprehension; a thought that comforted her for mere days before realizing her mistake.

"Good morning little Baedons. It's time to rise, and work, and learn, and play." The youngest daughter was always slow to wake in the morning and Alayne ran her fingers through May's rich blond locks to help her along. She enjoyed tending to the children each morning; not one of the four gave her any trouble. She knew this was due to the strictness of their father.

Baedon was a serious man, slow to laugh, and as efficient with words as he was with the movement of his compact body. He was so strict that he would not let Alayne help with any task at the Inn until she was properly trained thrice over. It was their mother, Mary, who was the welcoming presence at the Inn. Though when Mary was told of their new arrangement with Petyr, she had no welcoming words for Alayne.

Alayne was determined to win Mary over first no matter how temporary this new life would be, and helping with the children each day was a good beginning. Mary found more time with her husband each morning and in short time it seemed that master Baedon's manner was more pleasant as well.

She started her training the day after her arrival. She proved a bit of a disappointment in the kitchen, however, her courtesies and calm demeanor made her a good fit for serving food and drink to the patrons. Furthermore, Alayne's awareness to beauty and details soon allowed her autonomy in setting up the rooms for the next guest's arrival. She had made some small refinements, exchanging furnishings and linens, in compliments and contrasts more pleasing to the eye. And she made a game of having the children hide scent bags in each room which they had made together using portions of fruit, wood, flowers and herb stems. At the end of the second week, Alayne was stunned almost to tears when Baedon paid her in coin claiming she'd earned it. The wage was quite small but she cherished the feelings of freedom it gave.

"What sort of story shall we start with this morning?" Alayne asked the children. Alayne and the kids began each day preparing the kitchen for the days toil. As they worked she told the children a story, one that she would finish each night when putting the children to bed. She had so many fables from Old Nan to pull from; stories that had seemed ridiculous to her by the age of 10 became wonderful again.

The Strongsong stories became a game throughout the day, where the children would ask her what was to come next; where they would try to guess or add to the story. She would often give away different bits to each child to stir their interest and imagination. Though her stories were fictional, she tried to make them both educational and tales of truth. The Moon Door appeared in more than one tale. It would do them no good to live by false dreams as she had.

"Dragons!" said Hugo, and Hurog agreed; _scary stories are best_. Westeros was awash with tales of the Dragon Queen and the lands she had conquered. Alayne would have to draw upon Targaryen history to do this story justice for she knew not what was true when it came to the Mother of Dragons. As much as she listened for information of the war, much of the talk was beyond believing. Perhaps a quick look in Baedon's library, he had a refreshingly varied selection of tomes.

When Petyr had first mentioned the Saltpans, Alayne steeled all expression. She had heard stories of the Hound here, the Mad Dog of the Saltpans, they called him. Most all claimed he rode through the Pans raping women and children, eating their flesh and then burning all alive. Alayne knew this account was no truer than the tale Petyr shared about the Stark girl who married the Imp, killed the king and fled North on wings. Some said the Hound was dead but she had yet to find the truth of it.

"A story of Dragons is just what we need today," said Alayne as she helped May in to her small smock. "Three ships sail this afternoon, and we have much work ahead of us. Tell me Hugo, if you had a dragon what would you name him?"

"Firefly!" he shouted out.

"Shhh, come to the kitchen, quietly." In the kitchen she started. "There once was a dragon named Firefly. As with all dragons, this one was hatched from an egg and raised by a beautiful silver haired princess. Now children, tell me, what other animals hatch their babes from eggs?" She waited for answers then continued, "Yes, correct. So what do we think; is a dragon a bird?"

She let the children start the debate as she started pulling out potatoes. It was winter and there was never an end to potatoes in winter.

[12.05.31]


	4. Journey

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:** Perhaps I've gone against cannon calling Sandor Brother Digger, but the name really stuck for me.  
__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content._

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**Chapter 4 – Journey**

**Digger**

Life in Quiet Isle was like two edges of his lonesome sword. It was sharply peaceful and a damn hard peace; abruptly lifeless and bloody boring most days. He liked the quiet, yet Digger could not help but feel life with the Brothers was made up simply of a bunch of shitty compromises; and soon came to believe their lives probably were as well.

If he worked, he ate. That he understood, but the rest was a fucking pain. He was free from dawn prayers if he attended the weekly gathering. And he was not bothered by uninvited visitors if he shared the morning meal in silence with them each day. So Digger played their game, biding his time until he figured out what was to come next.

There was definitely too much time to think here, the only escape being hard work and prayer. Digger elected for hard work and regularly tended to the animals and labored on the builder group as well as the graveyard. Though he itched to exercise his sword, the new skills he was learning challenged his mind and timeworn muscles. The variety of chores was a help to his leg if for no other reason than it helped to define its weaknesses.

Without women and wine to distract his indocile evening meditations, Digger took to reading at Elder Brother's insistence. It was not a pastime he ever had much use for; tales of fantasy or romance were abundant and pointless. He found some enjoyment in stories of war and strategy if written by an experienced hand, but not much. He knew the truth of how quickly things went to hell in the vanguard when the blood started to flow and men began to shit themselves in fear.

Mostly he enjoyed the vocational writings. In the entirety of his life he had seen no more than a handful of books that taught something. Here on the Isle the Brothers had amassed quite a collection. Near half he picked up were written in another language, but pictures, notations and added pages aided ones learning. His favorite was a book on all manner of customs for preparing the dead. He contemplated adding a note on his newly perfected art to the section on grave digging, but could not recall the last time he inked more than his own name.

The brothers greeted him politely enough and kept a good distance by giving him solitary work tasks; like digging graves. No one seemed to feel the need to break the rule of silence while digging a grave. Very unlike peeling bloody potatoes, he discovered. People rarely said much even when standing next to a grave, which is why Digger chose his quarters nearest the ground he now tended. When he came to the main hall for the weekly gathering, however, there were a few proctors that always tried to engage him. Brothers Narbert and Pull were the worst, and of course there was Elder Brother.

During their seventh morn fasts on fruit and porridge, Narbert and Pull persisted in chatting with him and never failed to try and bring him in to a moral discussion about some bleeding thing. Most of the diversions they brought up, he didn't give a piss about, _Bugger that_, would be the sum of his input, if any. But when a rare topic of interest was started he did his best to argue the bastards back in to silence. He felt victory with every last word, but it was a beggared alternative to a real fight.

The proctors were forever asking what he was thankful for; it drove him mad. He didn't give a dog's fart about what they were thankful for, but he was forever listening to it. Digger had plenty of time to think on his past, what he had done, not done, regretted; but he didn't want to bloody talk about it. One morning, short of character, he decided to share one of his own insights. "Whores," he said simply. "Didn't always appreciate them when I had them and they seem much sweeter now. I'm thankful for whores." All but Elder Brother expressed their merry agreement, so he continued. "I once had a hell of a wavy haired whore named Petit. Gods she made me…"

Elder Brother interrupted, "Yes, Brother Digger, women are wonderful creatures given to men for perspective on the things of import."

"Laugh," Digger continued with a leer directed at the intruder. "She really made me _laugh_." Yes they both knew he was an animal, but he had played by the rules for some time now, stayed silent six out of seven. He wouldn't mind some bloody thanks from this one. He liked the pensive old knight, who was perhaps 10 years his senior; even after he saved his pointless life. And that is why Digger behaved, out of respect, because he sure as hell wasn't _thankful_.

*******/*******

"It's a mile outside the town, which is why only local folk stay there." Elder Brother continued prattling on about the lodgings and Digger wondered once again, why he had been asked along on this trip. Normally he would have grumbled about the extra mile, but a secluded area would be best for his Silent Brother horseplay. He could keep his head down in the Saltpans for a couple days, pick up a few things; maybe even a woman. He knew Elder Brother wouldn't like it, but he sure as hell was not asking for permission.

"Digger, I know you are familiar with women…" _Familiar? Gods_. Liked or not, the man was surprisingly stupid, and smart too, often at the same time. He'd been around women enough, but found little purpose or even honor in what they said or did. He only _knew_ one thing about them, and that was how to fuck them. He had often witnessed that his brother, Gregor, made a practice of hurting women; he decidedly did not.

It was a cousin who had led him down a different path, during her long summer visit to Casterly Rock; before she betrayed him that is. Gods how he hated her! He was so young… _Should have been grateful_. _Too much time to think.._. And he often thought about those months together, how they couldn't keep their hands off each other, how it was the last time he recalled being happy. He had never allowed himself to be fooled like that again and never would. Yet at the Quiet Isle he had ample time to brood if being a happy fool was altogether so awful.

"So you will see without leave this young woman is not common. She has a voice like the Gentle Mother herself. There are many wonderful singers at the Inn, enjoyed by all, but to hear her voice.., _that_ you will be thankful for Brother."

_More thankful babbling shoved up my arse_. "_I believe_ she sings for a lost…" As Elder Brother continued Digger grunted his assent and just stopped listening. He did not need to hear about some pretty songbird. He had looked after one of his own, "… solely unknown…;" and he knew the bar wench would never compare to his pretty little bird, "… some speculation…"; the one that was never his.

Instead of revisiting that which always seemed to weaken him, Digger returned to Petit, bringing her face and womanly body to mind. He knew what he'd be looking for in the Saltpans. He did miss Petit, and talking about it had made it worse, not better. Elder Brother had probably known that it would; he was a tricky bastard that way, or perhaps he'd just been in the brotherhood with his own thoughts for too long.

Digger recalled the first time he had met her. He was insanely drunk and screaming at the owner about a whore he'd just left upstairs. The owner stood at the large door to hear his complaint, clearly wanting him to leave. "I haven't even touched her and the whore's crying she's so scared. I told you, I don't want them scared, I want them _silent_! You got any whores like that?"

"We have all kinds of whores here, big man," a woman on his left calmly said. Her small stature was shapely with full breasts, handfuls of arse and wavy red hair. He didn't think she would be considered a beautiful woman. She could not and did not hide the signs that childbirth and hard work had left upon her, and that confidence stirred him.

"Who the hell are you?" the Hound grated.

"We've met before," she replied easily, looking at him clean in the eyes. _She doesn't flinch, _he noticed. _Yet_.

"I don't recall," he mumbled as he looked her over some more. "Did I enjoy it?" the Hound countered cynically.

In a tone that suffered no argument, she replied, "You're back for more, aren't you?"

The Hound bayed with drunken laughter. "Looks like I am. Come then," he directed, stumbling up and out of the chair forgetting the man in charge still standing near the heavy oak door.

She put a flat hand on his chest and firmly stated, "I got a rule of my own, big man. I get to say no if I don't like it."

"Of course," the Hound retorted thickly. She raised one eye brow at him, gauging his sincerity he thought, but he didn't know how to look sincere. "Ah ug…, I don't like that Bravosi shit either." She gave him a twitch of a genuine smiled and held her arm out to allow him to escort her to her room. At that he laughed again. He liked this one. "What's your name, woman?"

Introductions were quick as was the undressing and she had yet to flinch at the sight or sound of him. He could barely stand to see the revulsion and even worse, occasional pity, in their eyes. Even with the sluts who went with him willingly, he took them from behind to firmly escape it. To see it made him want to smash their faces bloody with the hilt of his knife. But that's what Gregor would do. All those whores he was _familiar_ with, no different than all the women at court, no different than any woman. They never looked at him. And he hated them for it.

The Hound wanted his whores silent. He knew all to be liars and accepted it was part of their work, but he hated liars and he abhorred the theatrics that came so freely with coin. A further truth he would never voice was all that noise unmanned him. His brother forced women, had made them scream in pain; had made him scream, and there was never anything he could do for any of them. When he came to spend his money and seed, he didn't want to remember; not that misery.

Petit was the finest woman he ever had and therefore it wasn't long before he let her made her noises, but not until his end was near. She had tried to touch him, his scars, and to press her lips to his, but he always moved her away. The pretense of his cousin and every other slattern he had known had despoiled him. The last time she reached for him, he swiftly caught her hand. "When you are ready," he recalled her saying. He took her meaning, but his only response was to move her hand low to stroke his fevered cock.

Petit was good at reading men. Though quite a talker, she rarely asked him stupid questions, and steered clear private ones. _Generous_, described her well. She generously gave him what he needed howbeit his mood. Which is why he was taken aback when she asked him to hit her a moons turn later. His immediate answer was no, it was nothing he wanted. But she claimed she needed help and one witnessed slap from the Hound would settle it. So be it; he simply nodded his agreement. He didn't need to know her game; surely survival like the rest.

Digger chuckled to himself as he silently scorned his chaste Brothers. He _would_ be thankful to find a silent, hippy whore, if only to retreat from Elder Brother's babbling.

[12.05.31]


	5. HeartTree

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:** Reference to a FanFic storyline that GRRM may have missed or lost by editing perhaps ;) – There's A Hound Asleep On The Stairs, Again! by TLH.(A)  
__**Warning:** Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Heart-tree**

**Alayne**

_Mother have compassion_, she was tired! As much as she enjoyed work for its distraction, she also missed the life when all that was required of her was to look pretty and converse similarly. _Empty-headed bird for true_, Sandor had said. Though he used his words like weapons, each sure strike buffeting its rival; she wished to hear him again. _No time for that now_. She'd think of him again tomorrow.

She should not have come to the weirwood today with the extent of the evening ahead. Prayer had given her an outlet for hope, and besides the dreams she entertained before sleep, it was the only time she would allow herself visions of a generous future. Despite the conditions Petyr had laid out, once she heard of the heart-tree here, she came almost daily. Master Baedon in his goodness did not deny her such a pious indulgence, nor did she think he had mentioned it to Petyr in their rare correspondence.

It was a short walk on steep terrain to the wood which afforded a peaceful view of the bay. Here on the small plateau of the lush East Pan, the hillside sustained the saddest heart-tree she had ever seen. The single tree appeared wounded, sparse and defaced. So thin and pale with its sullied ash bark, Alayne had felt a kinship upon first view with affect.

It was here in the steady wind that she acknowledged her true feelings for the Hound, even those that she had trouble reconciling each night. Here she let the soft cool wind slide over her, raising gooseflesh and by it all senses within her. She had laid out many nights in the Eyrie on her bed, by a purposefully overdone fire, with the large windows open, and felt that same touch, of cool wind, that made her shift dance and glide so delicately over eager skin. It seems to fill her and warm her in curious ways that made her bashfully grin. She could dream forever like that, wishing it was more.

_Man's magic_, Randa had called it; but she was nay to believe her bawdy talk. Yet the more she thought of him, she thought it must be true. And if he _had_ used his man's magic on her, then it had come from his eyes. _Look at me!_ His eyes spoke more than his words, and she had been too stupid to understand any of it. As much as she liked to think of herself as an adult, she had learned bitterly that she was as innocent as a child. Arya knew more of life and the honor of men than she did.

She had made a grave mistake back at Kings Landing. Sandor was her Florian, unseen until he was lost to her. Horrible he was yes, yet with her he was the only one who had become more tender as her circumstance faltered. She could not say exactly when her feelings for the Hound had changed; _the Eyrie mayhap_. She liked to imagine that all had changed the day he saved her life; it seemed fitting. And it was true that day she came to understand the sacrifice he had made to protect her from the mob; and the Lannisters beforehand. _Life is no song_ he told her; he never lied.

When she thought of it all now it was very different indeed. The desire it aroused was dark and roasting, like browned melted sweets on your tongue. The fluttering that she first felt for Joffrey was dull when likened to the steady, warm waves of the Hound's wind. He was so very strong and she longed for that strength every day. _There is nothing sweet about him_, but perhaps she was wrong again. Those nights she found him asleep on the rising stairs to her room_(A) _she never knew if he came from drink, loneliness or a foreboding for her wellbeing. She vowed never to pity him, yet at the time felt no more than gratitude for his stays that allowed her to sleep so peacefully. In her mind now she thought him the truest of knights, the golden beryl that filled her heart.

She was shamed to think such indelicate thoughts here near the heart-tree, but they were her truth. And it was here that the heart-tree spoke to her for the first time. "Patience Strength Direwolf", the leaves had intoned in a fraternal murmur. She had heard of such things from Old Nan, but it was still not to be believed. Not until the wood spoke again and showed her a forethought of a happier time, _like the purest winter dream_. It could be the form of her hereafter, if only he would come.

From that day forward she sang her own songs and never for a moment did she believe that Sandor Clegane was dead.

*******/*******

In the main hall that evening the musicians had started playing, the crowd was soothed with food and drink, asking for songs. Alayne was never the first to start the evening verse, there was too much expectation that intimidated her still. Tonight however, Clay stepped up and said the first song of the evening would be 'Blue Bells of My Home' for his brother Laurry. Clay's readiness startled her, yet he was a good man to Alayne's thinking and even kinder still to make the dedication himself.

The Stongsong Inn had saved her from the constant pawing of both Petyr and Robin, but to some degree the pawing had continued. Baedon spared no effort in protecting his _niece_ from the attention of the local men. Alayne did not know all that Petyr had told Baedon of her account, but he kept a keen eye on her and the few strangers who visited. He'd crushed hands, even broken an arm or two. She had witnessed at Kings Landing, at the Vale and now the Inn, that it was in a man's nature to be persistent when it came to women, and a single barmaid was too much temptation for some Panmen.

Petyr had warned her of such behavior. _You will be coveted for your beauty and youth, but must not befriend any of the townsfolk. Speak only to the Baedons. When you are asked questions about yourself, and there will be many, simply say that your story is of no consequence, no songs will be written about you. And you must conceal yourself if you ever see a face that is known to you. Baedon will be forgiving_.

_Yes father, of course father_, she would respond to his instruction. For her to have made the dedication to Laurry would break down the barriers that she had crafted so consistently. The idea that Clay was proving to be a true friend was ill advised. She was not Sansa Stark, Alayne, or a Baedon barmaid. She was Littlefinger's pawn, and willing or no, so far heeding his word is what kept her alive.

Moving towards the raised platform, Alayne drew her strength from the sigil of her birth. The main hall was almost full, benches occupied with outer townsfolk and a few travelers, but still space for more. The Inn was beautiful with its roughhewn beams, uneven tables and chairs, and smooth flooring. It was well-lit and warmed by two large fires, one hearth twice the size of the other nearest the kitchen. Alayne saw that most of the patrons were done eating, sitting at ease with drink in hand, loud drunken conversations filled the room. It was time for her to sing. In place she began, "Welcome home, Laurry".

Alayne started the southern version of 'Blue Bells' as expected through a few murmurs as the crowd settled. Midway through the song, Laurry surprisingly stood with flute in hand and started a melody so honeyed, and it was in a harmony that fit perfectly with her own voice. As she sang she gave Laurry a warm smile of gratitude, feeling triumph at his gesture and a little desirous in the thought that his tuneful instrument was the last thing she needed for 'the Wild song'.

'Blue Bells' ended with much applause and Baedon called her over. "We have some late arrivals, are all the rooms ready?" The question created an awkward moment for Alayne. _Of course they are ready_; she always attended to every last detail of her work. "Brother Elder is here, I would like to see him comfortable."

"Of course, master Baedon. We have 2 rooms upstairs and all 3 ready down," Alayne replied.

"I'll show them the downstairs rooms. I know there are small but have been requested. And call me Marc, or Baedon, or uncle if you prefer, the master is undue." This was a new gesture from Baedon, Alayne did not know what to make of it and quickly glanced right to see his wife near watching. "You sang beautifully for Laurry tonight," Baedon continued. "He is a good friend, a childhood friend. Thank you." A show of gratitude was so rare from master Baedon, she could only nod. Mary gave her a nod back.

*******/*******

"Elder Brother, it is nice to see you again," Alayne said sincerely on approach. "I have brought you both southern wine and ale. Which do you prefer this evening?" Elder Brother reminded her of a coarse-edged Maester Luwin, his watchful eyes still and composed. Though unwise, she liked the healer after their first encounter and always felt soft towards him.

"It is a pleasure to see you as well. It will be ale for me and also for my Brother who is arriving." He gave Alayne his usual warm smile. "I know we are late in coming and I see we have just missed your song. Will you be singing for us again this night?"

"Yes Brother. I have a new song tonight, though I am most uneasy about it," Alayne stated truthfully. Would they like her song? It was another ode to her _Rough Husband _and she wanted it to be perfect.

"I conceive it will be as delightful as all your songs. I hope only that you can delay until my companion arrives, as I have spoken highly of you. I would hate for him to miss such a rare splendor. We live in dark times and all of us need a little light."

"You are too kind Brother. I will ask Mary to help make sure you are both well attended." Elder Brother thanked her, as she moved to fill the other dry and wanting cups.

[12.06.03]


	6. So Long

_**Disclaimer:** A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:** First song. All attempts have been poor, so critiques welcome. Would love to read a song that captured the Hound's nature.  
__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 6 – So Long**

**Digger**

If he was not so damn hungry he would have chosen to stay in his small well met room. He did not need to hear the trollop sing. Nothing would compare to his memory of little bird's voice and he was more than fed up with thoughts of her. _Move and get this over with dog. Then you can go home_. But he had no home. The Quiet Isle had given him a degree of peace from the rage that consumed him, but soon he would have to make a decision about what was to come next. Would he have a life not writ in the red of blood, wine and hate? What sort life, if not eclipsed by the shadows of Gregor and the Lannisters?

The main hall was crowded, loudly bustling with talk and the clatter dishes. Standing at the beggars bench near the door, he was pleased to find Elder Brother at the back. "Thank the Crone you arrived. I thought you would miss dinner and Alayne," greeted his friend.

Dinner would be much welcomed and he curbed the impulse to share that he did not give a beggar's foul shit for song. He meant to enjoy the distraction from his usual presence as well as the meals, as this would be the last time he travelled here with the Brother. Being around this many people and barely armed, made him uneasy. He did not like the idea of being recognized as _the Hound_; not in the Saltpans. Entering the crowded town, seeing the extent of the rebuilding in progress, the trip abruptly seemed more perilous.

He sat quietly with his face hidden as planned and did not look around when dinner was served upon the clean marred metal plates and bowls. "That was Alayne, the songbird," Brother said. Digger tried to wipe the word 'bird' from his mind as he set upon the pork, potatoes and vegetables that made up the meal. This was a pleasant change from the pigeons and doves the Brothers regularly served.

As Elder Brother made introductions and conversation with those near, Digger worked his way through the repast as quickly as possible, ignoring the meaningless songs of love and loss that the patrons felt the need to sing along with. To his right, the Brother and their table mates nattered on, _Yes, a new song…I prefer Rough…who do you think she…her relative…betrothed_?

Digger, though disinterested, listened in on the arrogant man prettily presented across the table; a tailor Elder Brother had discreetly told him. "I will charm our maid soon enough," he boasted. The tailor had eyed him twice already but when Digger casually bared the left side of his face, he shied away like a maid himself; a maid who had seen something unfitting.

"Reg, you've charmed over half the women in the Pans, including the married ones. She does not need your attentions," said the carpenter Elder Brother had introduced.

"Sure I have, but it may be best to marry that one before winter comes. She's a rare beauty." _Pretty little stitch of a cunt has a life of women laid out before him_, Digger grumbled with a short pull of his drink.

Everyone but Digger shared comment, including the drunkard on his left who slurred a common boast. "She sings for me," proclaimed the filthy, red-nosed glutton. "And she'll sing even sweeter when I get my hands on her".

It was the carpenter that spoke out first, "Now don't start that, Nolynn. Leave the poor girl alone. Baedon will take off your strong arm if you even try her." Others voiced concerns as well. It sounded like a lesson for Nolynn was overdue.

Cheerfully drunk, Nolynn said, "No, no. You watch. The girl is going to come to me. I know it." Digger sniggered at the thought. No girl was coming for Nolynn, or for him. Their favors were going to the pretty little cunt Reg.

He looked around the room, laughing at his lot when he saw a young woman approaching the platform. As he watched her walk his heart skipped, then beat hard with a shock of pain. He swiftly dropped his head back down to his meal. She moved too much like his little bird, save the shoulders bowed in lowborn submission. He could not allow the thought of his bird now or the night would surely end in too much drink or worse.

"We have a new song tonight called 'Oh So Long'. Alayne." _So this was Elder Brothers coveted hatchling_. Digger did not bother more than a glance; he had no need of beauty, no need for song, only for the clean smelling room that awaited him. He silently vowed to leave soon as she finished.

_Oh… So… Long…_

_Her voice is pleasing enough_, Digger thought at the rich slow start, dropping his head lower to listen. When the tempo hastened to common time he thought he might finally hear a bawdy song.

_The road was so long, and filled with sadness,  
__Filled with hopes now gone.  
__Foolish and young, like a Septa's song,  
__I soon learned how, I did not belong._

_Bloody hell, she tweets like her too_. A few patrons started a galloping beat upon their tables.

_The road was so long, and filled with pain,  
__So far from what I had known,  
__My learning was slow, and he gave me his hand,  
__Protected me in this far away land._

"Seven hells!" he exhaled lightly, as his perception tried to grasp what he physically knew; that it was _her_.

"I told you," interrupted Elder Brother startling him, but his eyes could not turn away. At the chorus her voice pealed high and strident like a festival song of the Seven.

_And he, hounds my soul,  
__He filled my heart and kept me whole,  
__Hound's my soul,  
__Without him I'm naught, but ice and bone._

It was his little bird; singing about her dog. It was a sad song to be sure, but her voice chirped hopeful as it filled the room. He felt his heart race, his eyes burn, greedy for more.

_Gods she is beautiful_, achingly so. The dark brown wool and the brown subdued hair could not hide it. _Alayne_ the introduction said. She was more than a bit taller now and had come in to her figure. Her posture, muscled arms and neck showed she was no longer living a lady. By comparison her demeanor appeared half-lit and he wanted her more than he ever remembered.

_The road was too long to find the truth,  
__He knew before I did,  
__Would that I could have that moment again,  
__Knowing he's mine and I am his._

_It's a good disguise_, he mused, _if it weren't for the eyes_. Only those who cared to truly look at her then could recognize the resemblance now. _But how? If it her, how did she come to be here?_ Digger lowered his head, searched the crowd, adrenaline pouring through him. _Is she with the Imp? Or perchance her sister?_ If she had allies at Kings Landing he could think of none, but she had escaped, there must be someone. Startling him again, the audience joined in.

_And he, hounds my soul,  
__He filled my heart and kept me whole,  
__Hound's my soul,  
__Without him I'm naught, but ice and bone._

Each mention of his name cut him lower, looking round for impending danger. _What in seven hells is she doing?_ The way his head pounded with her every utterance, Digger wonder if perhaps he was still under that tree; immobile, bleeding and dreaming along the Trident. If this was death's dream it was a brutal affair.

_The road is too long, he is not returned,  
__I sing for him each day,  
__Good gods protect him, as he did me,  
__Show him my love, will forever be._

Thoughts and emotions were thundering in his head. Digger realized he _was_ genuinely thankful to have had so much time at the Isle where memories of little bird had often flown in. If this maelstrom had hit all at once he'd be hacking through bloody bodies now; to get to her or to get away, he did not know.

_And he, hounds my soul,  
__He fills my heart and keeps me whole,  
__Hound's my soul,  
__Without him I'm naught, but ice and bone._

As the song concluded Digger knew that if he wanted to keep his head he must go. But he found himself frozen, his legs and compulsion weakened; he could not. _Piss on that_, when he could watch his little bird. This could not be coincidence, else it was madness. Perhaps it _was_ the Gods, he thought, punishing him for his ridicule. If true, what was Elder Brother's part in this?

Watching her walk from the platform the stirring in his body said purposely that it _was_ her; no one pained his heart and pulled at his balls as deeply as she did. The girl Alayne was so very similar, but_ it couldn't be_. He saw no one he recognized, located no threat, but his wildly thumping heart told him danger was near. He needed to know that it _wasn't_ her, that he was not bloodless and breathless and incarnate in some new agony. So he waited.

After finishing their applause the table started up again. "That was lovely," Elder brother sighed content. "She really does have the most satisfying voice." Digger now had plenty thought for Nolynn, hoping he or that stitching bastard would speak up again. He planned to unleash the Hound in a most _satisfying_ answer.

"It was beautiful," the portly carpenter's wife agreed. "But I hope she continues to sing 'Rough Husband'. That one is my favorite."

"Oh, yes, 'Rough Husband' _is_ my Mattie's favorite," added the carpenter.

"Husband?" Digger spat, despite his presumed vow of silence. _So that's it! She forges songs about the ugliest wretches of Kings Castle_. He would have laughed were it not for the searing disgust bubbling up in his throat. _They had given his bird to that whoring Imp_!

Mattie cackled and lowered her voice to furtively answer. "No one knows the maid's story for true. But I think she sings for one man; her _Rough Husband_. According to the song, her man is a right fiery o' brute, a reeel killar." _Halfman the fucking hero_, he miffed.

"But on the night he rode off, he came to her room, stole from her a song, …but forgot the kiissss..." she giggled witlessly. "It's sooo romantic, I could faint." _Very fucking romantic when you leave out the pissing drunk with the knife. Stupid bird._

"He must be dead," Elder Brother flatly added quite uncharacteristically. "No man would be so impractical as to leave such a girl." _There's nothing practical about her_.

"Ah, but she has hope. And each night, she sings for the kiss she missed." With her hand placed dramatically on her chest she sang out:

…_For just one kiss, my lips have sung,  
__Come back to me, Come back to me,  
__My Rough Hus-band. _

His head was swimming again; he did not know what to make of any of it. He could not be certain what pained him more, hoping that she did want that kiss or knowing how much she hated and feared him and that she didn't. He was nonetheless quite certain that he needed stronger drink finding his own cup full, but not full enough.

"Oh Mattie, that was wonderful! You should sing it for everyone."

Digger went completely still at the delicious calm timbre of her voice. He wanted to remain deeply hidden but led by the memory of her agreeably feminine scent, his head drifted towards her. He just wanted to smell her again. Then he'd know.

[12.06.05]


	7. Welcome Brother

_**Disclaimer:**__ A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N:  
**__**Warning:**__ Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Welcome Brother**

**Alayne**

"Oh no, Alayne. I could never be so brave. Besides, the only rough thing about my carpenter here is his hands." Alayne smiled pleasantly while Mattie giggled. Mattie was forever giggling but Alayne rarely heard enough of the story to share in the amusement. She knew how much courage it took to get up on that platform and though she would relish hearing her songs sung by another, she would press Mattie no further.

"Alayne," called Elder Brother. "Your new song was lovely. You had nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Your voice is so pure, I never tire of it." The rest of the table praised her much the same.

"That's very kind, but it is the music that makes the Inn special." Elder Brother was always supportive and she wondered if he sang as well. He had a nice voice for song, perhaps she should ask.

"Alayne, this is my companion, Brother Digger." The new brother kept his head down and nodded to his empty cup. Alayne was not troubled by his manner or that he chose to remain hooded; she knew Quite Isle Brothers took a vow of silence. She preferred to work in silence herself but that would not do in the main hall. The outer townsfolk were plenty pleased with her courtesies and she recited them well without thought.

"Welcome, Brother. I shall take your plates and allow you to enjoy the music without burden." As she reached around to take his service, she noticed his hands. They were very large, liberally scarred and worn. Reminded so completely of the Hounds hands, she made a slow involuntary reached towards one.

The Brother was quick to pull his arm in to his chest before she got too close. Embarrassed by such ill-mannered behavior, Alayne said nothing collecting his plates and swiftly went about her business. She was just so tired tonight and the song had the Hound too near in heart. She dared a further glanced as she withdrew, but could not see the new Brother's face to gauge the offense.

Alayne moved away from her misstep to attend to Elder Brother's service. She gave empty nods at the talk of the table as she added to his cup and noticed only then she had not attended to Brother Digger's drink. His cup was still dry. _Oh dear_. She returned to his right mindful this time as she reached again and refilled his large cup. "I'm so sorry Brother," she said quietly, he could take her meaning as he wished.

As Alayne moved off towards the kitchen she was firmly struck; stumbling at the shock of it. The silent Brother had forcefully elbowed her, shoving her backward so swiftly she barely kept hold of her wares. She was just able to right herself when she heard a loud thump and an even louder cry of pain.

"Do. Not. Touch her!" the Brother growled with such fury as he pinned Nolynn's arm to the table. Alayne's eyes broke suddenly to the Brother's face and she gasped at the malformed ruin of what she saw.

"Best look away, girl. I'm disagreeably scarred." _Dear Gods_!

"No, ser," she faintly recovered and reached instinctively for his arm; searching in to those brooding gray eyes. Her reach missed as he let go of Nolynn and leaned back in to his seat. "My Lord, it was the noise that star…"

"Alayne! I asked if there was trouble here!" Baedon yelled.

Alayne spun around to see Baedon looking from her to Nolynn and then to the Hound. She found she could not answer, terrified that Baedon would know she recognized the Brother. She had wanted so desperately to see the Hound again only to find herself ill-prepared and on the verge of ruining everything.

"The man, Nolynn, reached for Alayne and the Brother set to stop him. There is no trouble now, Baedon. We are most regretful for the disturbance." It was Elder Brother that came to her aid.

"It's true, Baedon. I saw it meself," Mattie added, not giggling anymore.

"Very well." Baedon took a long look at Brother Digger and then gave a harder glare around the room to all the wide eyed patrons. "You will not pay a coin for food or drink during your stay, Brother," Baedon announced. "I am glad of your help. These dogs will not heed. Nolynn!" Baedon's voice returned to outrage as he chastised the man. He was always a bit frightening when this happened.

Alayne moved away from the group to attend to the other patrons. Typically when such things occurred she would gently proclaim it was nothing, now however, she very much needed to collect herself. "I don't want to see you here for a week! And if you reach for my niece again, you will no longer be welcome. Go. Now!"

Alayne found she could not control the shaking of her hands as she moved around the main hall occupying herself by filling cups. _Benevolent gods he is here, _just as she had prayed. But she had no idea of what she was to do. He had tried to protect her, so certainly he had seen her. He had heard her song, but he gave no sign to confirm it was so.

She withdrew to the kitchen to steady herself and decide upon what to do next. She would thank him. _Yes, that would be proper_. And then she'd find some means to indicate that she would come to him. But when she returned to the main hall true panic set in, he was gone.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

His abrupt departure caused notice; there was no help for it. He almost broke when she reached for him so easily and he could not jeopardize her with his foolishness. He had first gone to the stables, planning to prepare Stranger and go, but his destrier was waiting back at the Isle. _What in all buggering hell was she doing? And who has hold of her leash now?_

The innkeeper said Alayne was his niece, but the fear on her face said otherwise; he was not in her confidence. The man was intent on keeping her safe, but Sandor knew not why. Her fear brought out a visceral reaction, a need to protect her and drag her away from this shitty broken place willing or no.

She was confounded to see him but did not look miserable about it. He did not see the hate and fear for him he expected. She did fear something. She'd be smart to fear him; yet he could not bear the sentiment. He had satisfied his cock with plenty of lustful thoughts about her at Kings Landing. But she was a highborn girl and he was no more than a dog; in all it amounted to nothing more than ardent jerkings. Now she was grown and appeared to be providing for herself in a way he never expected to see. He was further enchanted at this sight of her and wanted _more_.

_She's no longer a maid_, kept circling his mind. Thoughts of the Imp laying hands to her made his temper flare. Thoughts of his own hands on that winter white skin made other parts of him smolder too. Propriety did not dictate her lowered now that her husband had taken her innocence, but to him it did. Who knows how many men had forced their pleasure upon her after she had been cast aside by Joffrey. Gods he hated himself for the thought, for not taking her away. He could have done more for her than this. _Take her now_, said the twitching of his cock. He needed to hit something, hard. _Nolynn_, he thought, searching in earnest for the drunk.

He quickened his pace hoping to shake off his shameful thoughts and the anxiety of seeing her. He was unfulfilled and halfway to the harbor before he realized he was simply wandering without direction and should go back. _But back to what_? At the Inn he headed for his room but stopped to peer inside a window wanting to watch her more.

He saw her in the main hall, still serving drinks and tweeting her courtesies. _She's looking for me_, he noted with her every glance to Elder Brother. When she walked towards the kitchen he followed and there he watched her alone. When he felt the heat of the scullery through the open window he moved back in to the darkness of a near tree. His mind faltered again to see her floating throughout the room. _She glides when she's happy, _he dimly recalled; odd when he did not recall her gliding at Kings Castle.

She settled to refill her flagons, but then relaxed completely to wrap her arms about herself. He had more than just a profile view of her face and his own breath came out in a sharp visible rush as he watched her close her eyes, bite at the corner of her lower lip and smile.

"Alayne?" came the intruder's voice. Though startled, her smile slipped easily away. A slight hesitancy in her posture made him wonder; was the innkeeper her protector now and recipient her favors. The man had a temper and looked like he'd seen a few battles, but he would be no match for Sandor. "Mary asked me to see you are well." _If that bastard touches her, I'll kill him_.

"Yes, uncle. I am quite well. Your wife is kind to worry." _Wife_? The knowledge that Sansa was most likely not warming this man's bed encircled him with renewed need; need to touch, to smell, to hold her and take her to where they would never be found.

"I'll visit Nolynn tomorrow and make sure he understands what happened here tonight. It will not happen again." Sansa nodded, choosing to say no more on the unpleasantness. "Shall I help you with those?"

"No, thank you, uncle," she finished, taking her jugs back to the main hall.

That settled it. She wanted to see him; not in the way he wished to see her, but it was enough. Her smile had lightened him. Yet his cock was making dark abject plans of its own. Sandor could control that; despite rumor he'd always been a man of enduring control; a trait bred in to the best of killers.

His head was still hemming around why she was here in the Saltpans when his foolish peace was brutally stripped raw by the most important and unsought question – _What does the little bird want?_ If she was happy to see him, if she would meet with him, there would be a reason. He could not recall her ever giving him a willing smile. Why would she? He was the second son to no one; a man notorious for being as hideous as he was merciless. The only reason anyone sought him out was for killing.

_Cousin Magritte_. He could not stop thoughts of her now. After some happy months he had discovered the truth of it, the bloody bitch had approached him on a jape. When confronted, she swore it was only that first kiss and she told no one the truth of her feelings thereafter; unaware of how much fucking worse those words were.

Gods he was a fool! Did he expect his little bird to place her hand on his shoulder and lean in to him as they quietly exchanged pleasantries? He had never been kind to her or spoken kindly. He had tried to help her, but she had been too stupid to understand and rejected his words. He swore he would not be a fool again. Yet honesty spoke that to be her dog in some small way might be enough. Or maybe that was only the instinct of a Lannister dog, pitiably well trained.

He spent forever in reasoning, torn between wanting her, hating her and hating himself; wondering, hoping that she would come to him and settle it. But no, she would not, if for no other reason than it would not be proper. If he were lucky, her captors would; such an end would feel like a relief tonight.

There was nothing to be done, all that what was left was much needed sleep and to forget. In his room with no wine to soothe the insanity, he remembered the smile that swept across her still innocent face. That smile _was_ for him and it gave him the false courage to leave his door unlocked.

[12.06.08]


	8. Direwolf Determined

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Fluffy and violent.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 8 –Direwolf Determined**

**Sansa**

She had seen nothing but her own breath for too long standing in the shadow between the alehouse and the stables. She reminded herself over and over and then once more that she must be strong. Though he had not come to her, nor acknowledged her, his actions said he was not indifferent. The gods had done their part; there was only her to take this chance offered.

She could think of no one who would agree that what she prepared to do was right, but if she was to have the dream the weirwood had presented she must try. The story she sought was not as pretty or romantic as she liked to make it, but with Sandor there was truth, safety and there would be happiness, but first she had to make him understand. To anguish any longer over it all would only bring the morning light so Sansa decided that she must be and therefore she was determined.

She pulled her wool cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Her dress hung too loose to shield her from the harsh cold that bored painfully in to her skin. She entered the side door of the Strongsong as quietly as she could. With only the three small rooms there was no one in to hall to see her at this hour. She quickly moved and tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer.

Sansa felt her heart start to break through. Breath held, she forced herself to try the handle to his door and pushed. When the door opened slow and silent, courage came again. She gathered her strength, walked in to the room and bravely closed the door.

"Go away, little bird." His voice was a tired growl just above a whisper and she felt that sound within. She wanted him to come to her, take her in his arms so she could feel his strength and make it her own.

"I am pleased to see the Butcher of the Saltpans alive and well," she whispered trying to sound lightly mocking as he often had. At his snort, she added, "I knew it wasn't you." Taking a step closer she watched him.

"Still a fool, I see." He was stretched out on the bed he had moved to the far side of the room away from the brazier. He was partially supported against the wall and by the dim light looked to be covered by the woolen blanket. She could feel his eyes on her. "You shouldn't be here, little bird. Fly back to your nest now."

She stood taller and shook her head, "I cannot, my Lord. I wish to speak with you." He gave her another snort.

"It's dangerous for us both, girl. Improper as well." She thought it good that he did not rebuff her for the address and her wolf took another step closer. "Especially for a Brother who has taken vows." His comment froze her stiffly in place. She hadn't even considered his robes or why he travelled with Elder Brother. _So stupid_! Beyond the uncertainty that he would see her again, her only thoughts had been how best to be pleasing and agreeable to him.

"Didn't think of that, did you?" He sounded mocking now.

"No," she admitted weakly. "Did you? Take vows?"

"No, little bird," he chuckled. "I'm in hiding. Like you it would seem." The chance was still before her.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

The abruptness in his voice warned her to be evermore careful, but she felt so very calm in his presence and by the knowledge that she truly wanted him. _Tell him_. With her next step she replied, "You heard my song. I want to be with you." His sudden stillness made her feel strangely warm in the cool room and the nervousness in her stomach grew and pulsed strongly within her body. _Mayhap he does have magic_.

She watched as he threw aside the blanket to sit at the edge of the bed. His feet were bare, chest too and his breeches appeared unevenly worn. She unhooked the fastener at her neck and dropped her cloak. Hearing the rhythm of her own breath, she realized her heart was pounding. _Can he hear it too_? _Is that why he looks at me so strangely_?

"Then you best come here." His words made her feel like she was expanding on the inside and outwardly her skin was keen for some new sensation. She had come with her dress improperly tied so it could be made to slide off easily. Still determined, she called to her wolf and did so, hoping this is what he wanted too.

The brush of the fabric and the room's chilled air made the tips of her breast thicken against her thin shift. She held her breath, patient, but still he made no move towards her. The wolf growled at her weakness, nudging her like a new pup, as she stepped up before him. She wanted to hear him speak again; that is until she looked in to his eyes and saw fury, not magic or the gentle desire she longed for.

"What do you want?" he harshly demanded.

She could not understand his anger and she raised her hand, holding it out to him, but he would not move to take it. She thought he'd be pleased to see her, but he just looked repulsed by her presence. Gods she was scared she would lose him. Dropping to her knees before him she submitted, "Oh please, Sandor, you must forgive me. I didn't know. I was foolish and I didn't know until that night," eyes pleading to his.

"What would a stupid girl know?" he rasped stiff and mocking.

At his derisive words, she cast her eyes down. _Does he not know as well_? _Does he feel nothing for me_? She had been wrong about so many things, perhaps this was another. Panic was weakening her resolve and it was akin to the dread felt when she had done something wrong and provoked Joffrey. She dared to speak again, "That… I should have left with you." _Oh Gods, please make him understand_. With a glance back up at him she kept on, "I… I love you."

Sandor's face contorted violently and the most awful sound came forth. He grabbed hold of her arms, jerking her off her knees, to dangle her a few inches from his face. "You have no right to play your games with me, girl." Sansa could feel the heat of hate in his breath and in each drop of salvia that hit her face. She did not move in his unyielding grip, nor make a sound. "_Love_?" he snarled as his burnt jaw twisted. "Do you love me like you _loved_ Joffrey?"

His voice was dark and heinous with the foulness of his words. "No! You know that was false." She closed her eyes to the loathing she saw in his. Things were quickly going wrong, she did not know how to make him hear her. _This is not how it is supposed to be_!

Giving her a shake, the Hound barked again. "Like you loved the _Imp_? Did you come to him like this?" He looked down as if disgusted by her, but she continued to feel heated as his eyes roamed over her body.

"No! I never..." she tried to tell him, but he shook her again harder. _How could he be so crude after hearing my song_?

"How sweet you must be to have made that little man kill his king and kin?" He smiled sinfully at her, looking too much like the knights who had beaten her. Her fear rose sharply as her hope sank to hear such ugly words. "Did you spread your legs like a whore for him? Oh yes, you did. He prefers whores you know."

_Stop! _"No! Yes. He… I mean… It was Littlefinger," she finished frantically.

"Littlefinger!" he spat, voice dangerously raised. His entire body shook, jerking her more violently as he struggled to remain in quiet control. "Say that name again, girl, and I will snap your neck!" Had she been wrong to come here like this? She never believed he might be dangerous to her, yet perhaps it was to be a fitting end to all the blood and lies, for she would not give up after all she bared before him.

"Stop! You must stop speaking to me like this. Please!" She closed her eyes, tears falling heavily. She begged, "Punish me if you must, but never, never say I betrayed you. I would not. I…I haven't. I only want to be with you, Sandor."

His left hand grabbed a fist full of her hair and twisted her head back, forcing her to lower again to her knees. "Lying little _love_ bird. Look at you shake in fear." Sansa reached madly for that calm once more; she mustn't cry.

"I'm cold. I waited outside forever for any sign of you," she spoke quickly. She watched as his right hand, large and so very warm, swept over her cheek and neck. She could not help the audible intake of breath, closing her eyes as his heat filled her, expanding the whole of her again.

"Liar," he whispered huskily. "You still can't bear to look at me."

"Stop this! There is no truth in it," she whispered, looking desperately in to his eyes. "You are the only truth I have, Sandor. And you're spoiling it." His head dropped down towards his chest, brown tresses still in his grasp as he rested his head against hers. He seemed to be gathering his strength and she struggled still to find her own again. "Please, Sandor. Look at me now." He yanked at her hair again, then looked deep in to her eyes and waited. She could not and did not flinch at what she saw. Unable to explain, she remained focused on the one thing she wanted him to know._ I'm yours._

At the first sign of hesitation in his eyes, she boldly reached out to kiss him and was stopped by the grip he had on her hair. She watched his hesitation grow further and waited, yet he did nothing. There was naught but the horrible sound of his breath.

When she reached for him again he finally let go. She ran her lips along his rugged face. Such immense relief and a renewed desire flowed uncontrollably in her belly as she pressed small kisses to the corners of his mouth, atop his uneven lips. She felt and heard the haggard breath he drew, as he gave in to her and parted his lips.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

Her words were drowning his mind more ferociously than the song had. _Please darling, look at me. __I want you. __Don't spoil it. _She was confusing him and to see the outline of her womanly body was destroying all reasonable thought. He was going to fuck her if she did not shut up. She didn't know what she was asking, but she well should have. Maybe after the Imp she merely wanted death. It would be just like the silly little bird to want someone she trusted to bring her end. _______Damn Northmen!_

She had reached for him; pulling hard against the hair he had claimed. With all his strength he remained immobile to the demand. If she reached for him again, however, he would let her. She'd gone too bloody far. And he would take it and consume it all, no different than the rest.

The only thing keeping his steely cock at bay was that he knew the little lady wanted something. He had brooded for hours waiting to hear it and finally to her faithful dog she had come. _How long has she waited for someone, anyone she knew? _He was in no shape to protect her proper, but would be lying to think he was not considering doing anything she asked for just one taste. Since that song his wish was to sit alongside her, listen to her beautifully honeyed voice and sweet silence. Yet here she was, offering herself to him, stripping before him like dozens of sluts before her. And he hated her for it.

If she did not shut up, he'd have his taste and leave the little liar with nothing! The Stark girl had grown in to no more than a wanton whore. _A whore by his making, _he anguished.

Gods! He wanted to scream. How could he have left her to the Imp? And Joffrey. And Littlefinger! For a moment he could not help but think it better she be dead, than imagining those whoremongers, with their greedy hands all over her. He could not stop the evil in his mind. _Damn it! __Fuck her or frighten her away, just be done with it dog!_

The senseless bird reached for him again, overwhelming her last line of defense; his waning desire to keep her safe. A new desire took precedence, one without tenderness or concern. He was pure need. The need to defeat her, to overcome her entirely and take by rights what he knew should have been his.

She ran her mouth along the unscarred side of his face. When her tiny kisses reached his lips, his bird pecked at him with such innocence that it infuriated him. _Not nearly enough, little liar! _He was intent on taking it all; choking his cock within the depths of her to strike out those just as unworthy. If he broke her, if he became his brother, so be it. And when she cried he would not stop. He would let her tears wash it all away: Her, the Lannisters, Gregor. ___Fuck the bloody Saltpans. __And fuck Elder Brother with all his talk – _he would be to blame when her cunt became the Hounds cleansing. She had betrayed him, perhaps not willingly, but she was his and it was time she learned her lesson.

When he could take no more of her puerile fumbling, he spread her lips with his own and jammed his tongue into her mouth. Clashing his tongue with hers, his foolish bird sighed and pressed herself more firmly in to his arms.

[12.06.13]


	9. Mine Take It

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**:  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content. _

* * *

**Chapter 9 – Mine Take It**

**Sansa**

His kisses were rugged and wanting and his powerful hands grasped her seat more firmly to hold her fully bounded by his legs. His hands left a trail of heat wherever they touched and Sansa swayed at the tingling rush that dropped in her belly. She did not care that he was holding her too tightly; she wanted to be closer too.

The rest of the world seemed to fall away with her tears when his rough darkness folded around her. Sansa took root in that darkness and the utter relief that Sandor had not forsaken her, but the suffering lump in her throat remained constricted with doubt; _What if I am not pleasing to him_? Her mother had told her of the marriage bed and she knew it started with the kissing. But when she begged for more detail her mother said so very little; _He'll come in to you, but you need not to worry, a good husband will show his wife what is expected_.

She trusted Sandor, she must; _he will show me_. But she did worry; worry that she would make some shameful mistake and he would be angry with her again. She wanted to ask when his mouth broke away, but his kisses moved down her throat as hands continued their circling behind her. The pounding of her heart left little space for breath and none for talk.

His tongue and burnt cheek rasped against her skin and she heard her beloved growled in frustration, while his hands moved for new purchase. Turning Sandor swiftly laid her out on the bed which groaned as his immense weight sank in alongside her. Looking up at him his face appeared sharper in the shadowy room and the burns to his left more fluid than stiff. She wanted to touch them, feel the ridges he bore, but unsure settled to place a hand on his neck.

With no more than a glance, his mouth and hands were quickly on her again; his fingers sinking fast and near painfully in to her flesh. He was pressing his hard muscular body heavily against the length of hers and his kisses started to become unruly, stinging her lips with sharp teeth. Sandor's left hand grasped roughly at her breast and following, she heard an awful gurgling then a deeper growl of annoyance as he fumbled at the tiny buttons of her shift. Bothering no longer he yanked the shift so forcefully it ripped down to the waist.

"Oh," she exhaled, breath coming light and quick at the harshness of it. Sansa could not stop the startled gasp as he put his mouth to her and started suckling and nipping as if nourishing at her breast. She tried not to pull away from the contact, it felt somewhat agreeable, but both the uncertainty and passion overwhelming to her.

His wind had become a storm, a raging tempest drowning her senses and she swallowed against the simmering thick heat. He tore at her shift again as his mouth returned to warm the skin between her breasts. He nudged apart her knees with his leg and the noises he made began to sound wicked and cruel. The fear she felt at his anger before reappeared. Perhaps he was losing hold of himself.

"Sandor," she breathed. He did not hear her. "Sandor," she said again, placing her right hand on his head to gain his eyes. He snarled and stilled, then tried to shake off her reach. She ran her trembling hand through his glossy black hair, willing him to see her. "Darling," she waited. "You must be gentle with me." He looked at her then, but with little recognition, she saw only horrendous need in that dark clouded gaze.

"I'm sorry, my love, but you must," the calm of her voice belied her growing fear. "Please, Sandor…my maidenhead is yours."

His eyes went wide and clear at her words, but his look was not kind. "What?" he snapped, pulling shoulders back. His tone suggested that he did not believe her so she held his look and firmly nodded once. "What?" voice softer, storm receding. "How did...?"

"I am yours, my love; yours alone," she interrupted, letting her hand drift down to cup his cheek. She knew why Tyiron had not bedded her but she would not say it; she would not have him see her as a weak child now. His silence was bleak and the intensity of his gaze shifted to say that he was pulling away. _Please say something_.

As quick as she could she unburdened her left arm to place her hand on his shoulder. "Please, Sandor," she started then rose up to kiss him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. She hurriedly pressed her tongue to his lips as he had done, hoping it was enough. "Please," and he kissed her anew.

_He is won_, Sansa internally sang as he gentled her back and kissed softly along her hairline. His touch had tempered and he carefully tried to pull her shift back together his rough hands snagging on the fine cloth. There was no help for it; she had worn the shift with the buttons simply because it was her finest one, not realizing it would be a mistake. Sansa watched him paused at its ruin as he tried to cover her nakedness. Then he looked to her, brow pinched, curious at her triumphant smile.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

Looking at the shift he destroyed, he prayed for strength and Sandor _never_ prayed; not since he was boy. _Bloody hell, how could she be_? It made no sense that such purity could have escaped her vulgar captors; yet he realized she had tamed him easily enough. The shift was a minor skirmish he had won and he didn't need her smile to know tonight this battle would go to her.

Sandor could not stop the rotten vision that this was some theatric he had yet to pay for. Only moments before he thought he might kill her for little more than to satisfy his tortured cock. _Mustn't scare her away now, dog,_ the little bastard warned. But it looked as if the bird might kill him instead. With all her beauty and virtue now in his hands he was asea; as if he'd lost his footing in a melee and soon would go his advantage. Yet she had met his scars with ease and asked him to be gentle, _Please, you must_. Her familiar plea for kindness had defeated him and her loyal dog could deny her nothing.

Sandor suffered no illusions about the man he was; he was not meant for such a gift. Sansa Stark was bred to be the offering to a high lord or king, not a carnal feast for some grubby dog. He pushed rancor aside and vowed to do his best not to hurt the girl; but that was as far as a hound's gallantry would go.

In truth he did not believe her; certainly not when she first spoke it and equally after when he met nothing but truth in those comely blue eyes. His thought should be to keep the little thing safe not rape her innocence, but it was too late. She had weakened him, yes, but he had no intention of stopping now.

He was defiant enough to take what the Stranger offered. She was his by rights and by her own folly when she stepped through that door. To hear little bird's words even she knew it.

*******/*******

**Sansa**

Sansa moved to meet her love's lips again, his tongue a slow delight and she felt as if she were drowning again in the moist rapture of it all. His now familiar heat flooded her as his hands roamed and she pulled away her shift wanting to feel his contrasts of smooth skin and muscled hardness. She felt the tickling hair from his chest and belly. It was arousing like the touch of the wind, but with so much fiery promise it was nothing like it all. Easy wet sounds came from his mouth, from hers, their lips together and she thought, _this is right_.

Sandor tilted her back, bringing his head down to her chest, mouth brushing delicately over the top of her right breast. He moved cautiously and kissed lightly there and this time it was very agreeable. He was being so very careful, just as she'd asked.

Sandor's left hand moved down to cup fully at her breast and her breath caught under the stroke of his thumb. His hand slid lower, travelling firmly over her lean belly then slowly to burrow at her hair below. She felt almost frantic at the need to surrender to the warm dewy yearning his hands seemed to put in to her. He was looking at her, watching intently when his hand dipped lower to her center. She took a choking gulp at the expanding pleasure that swelled in heavy legs and tried to hide her face whilst catching her breath.

She looked back to him, eyes begging him for calm. Her own tempest was upon her now as he teased at the inside of her thighs and pressed his fingers more solidly between them. She wished for the words to ask him if this was right, but the touch made her feel dizzy and imbalanced. The hot twisting between her belly and knees was coming upon her faster now, too fast, like running down the steepest hill at Winterfell, the pace and the eventual fall worrying to her. She looked frantically to Sandor for help and he looked… looked like he was smiling.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

She looked so pale next to his darker skin and he could almost see the red in her hair under the shadows of the dim light. _Such a delicate little bird_. Regarding her he thought, _she knows nothing, has never been touched_. He should have stopped when she said she was still a maiden, but his need was selfish and incapable of letting her go. Sandor wanted to believe it, especially when she looked so pleadingly to him for comfort.

"Sandor! I…feel," he halted the sweeping strokes of his finger.

"Shhh, it's alright. This is the way of it," he voiced in a settled whisper. She exhaled in deep relief with half-lidded eyes. "I've got hold of you, my pretty bird. Just need let go, when you're ready." Her brows were pinched, still unsure about the nature of things, yet she nodded her acceptance. He almost wanted to laugh, or cry, to see the trust in her eyes. He smiled instead hoping his awful grin would not frighten her away. _She really knows nothing_.

Sweet lips called him in and he bent to kiss those so unlike his own. _She's not minding the scars now_, he mused unkindly. He kissed her fully and started the slippery caress of his finger again in time with the probing of his tongue. It took no more than seven sure strokes of her fresh pearl to finish the girl. And his bird came so perfectly to his hand; bucking and shuddering, but with little noise beyond her irregular breath.

His need to take her was thick and headstrong but he'd let her have her bliss, deciding he could please himself with the scent of her. He buried his nose at her hairline, the tallow of her hair smelled of nuts and fruit, and just as agreeable as the memory. In slow pursuit he trailed his nose down the side of her neck and continued to the light richness of her shoulders. Following his hand slid lazily down the length of her arm and brought her hand up to his mouth where he licked at her fingers and his.

Not fully sated Sandor moved to brush his right cheek along the flawless skin of her nearest teat which like her shoulder smelled of apricots that had the same soft firmness. When his little bird reacted to his touch he glanced up. The girl smiled foolishly at him and almost stopped the lulled beat his heart by shyly tilting her head as if to ask for more.

"Wait," she peeped as he moved to her right, "with the other one." She was confusing him again, and he felt his temper blaze at the thought of stopping. But with a more exaggerated tilt he thought she was asking for the scarred side. Unsure, he proceeded slowly to do what no woman would ever ask, and he watched, waiting for the horror. She surprised him by reacting with a soft unfocused sigh to the damaged roughness of that side. Eyes still on her he waited to see what she would do next.

Sansa brought her head back forth and looked bashfully toward her right. To follow he ran his nose and unimpaired cheek along that firm fruit too. Simply to look upon her so altogether pleased with him was disarming, as was the emotion when she tilted her head for the scarred side again. He complied in full and his little bird rewarded him with another naked sigh.

Sandor continued right-to-left down the length of her body, sniffing and tasting, feeling muddled yet awed by such unbidden access. _No man could withstand her_, he told himself, knowing he was already her fool. She had sprung her trap and he been caught, but whatever she wanted would wait. He wanted to nuzzle the downy pink pearl his fingers had savored, knowing he'd never have a highborn maiden again. _Mustn't scare her dog_, reminded he made only a momentary pass to catch her youthful musk before lifting her leg to taste the clean sweat behind her knees. When he reached her feet Sansa quietly giggled. _Yes, princess, I am the dog at your feet_, he thought unfavorably, admitting defeat.

Sandor's cock was as hard and smooth as dragon's glass; it had to be to withstand the years of prolonged lust for the girl. The aching he felt told him the little bastard was not willing to put up with much more of his trifling. Finished with her scent, he stood and removed his breeches. Those sea-drowning eyes attended him silently. Her flushed thighs and chest roused him solidly as did her cheeks when they went rosy at his undressing. "It's alright, little bird. You can take your look." She fought to keep her eyes on his and delighted him at the loss of that ridiculous battle.

"Do you know what's to happen next?" She nodded silently. He hoped she did. Sandor stretched his large body alongside her and pulled her gently to him. _So delicate and so soft_. He kissed her once more deeply to soothe her. "Turn on your side, facing me."

"My side?" she questioned surprised. _Alas, the bird's not totally untaught_.

"Yes, because of my leg."

"What of your leg?" her voice pitched with concern. He gave her a hard impatient look to stop her chirping. He had her scent in his nose, her taste in his mouth and feeling all that lovely chaste skin along his thighs it was no time for talk. His heart beat wildly laboring his breath and he fought his cock fiercely for control. He was trying to do right by her and she needed to shut up.

"Later. Come." Sansa Stark obeyed like a proper lady would to her husband and said no more.

[12.06.18]

* * *

_**A/N**: Yes this is the end, next starts with breakfast. __If you have time, send me your critique; harshest of comments will be welcome . Our lovers have another night together which is not writing any easier._


	10. Violet Musings

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: For the lovely Viola (JA): Thanks for the advice and the pep; do tell if I have muddled your musings.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Violet Musings**

**Elder Brother **

Upon waking Elder Brother's first thought was for Digger; an unease like a stone in his boot since he first found the man along the Trident. He was concerned about the Brother's sudden leaving after the unpleasantness with Nolynn. It was hard to adjust to others after the peace of the Quiet Isle; which is why he asked him along.

"Good day, Elder Brother. How would you break your fast?"

"Fruit and porridge, please Alayne."

"May?" He thanked her as she quickly moved to the next.

Digger had seemed comfortable during their trip and he had truly hoped that the Strongsong would be an easy introduction. Alayne's new song should have been a delight, but the way the Panmen sang out the unfortunate word 'hound' was not a help. Alayne, however, did not seem long affected by Nolynn's misstep or Digger's assistance, though she had reacted strongly, unsure how to address the Brother. _It's those unfortunate scars_.

_Best leave all unsaid_. Brother Digger would refuse to speak of it and there really was no point. Nor was there any point in mentioning the comfort of the woman he found last night. Bringing her to the Inn was brazen, but Elder Brother was sure it had gone unnoticed and now was not the time for another lecture. Digger was doing his best and even the gods could ask no more.

Elder Brother had no delusions that Sandor Clegane would join the Order. He had spoken to him many times about the Faith Militant, but without response. It was good to provide a respite from his blood-soaked past and he was welcome to stay at length. Though not an amiable addition, the Hound _was_ intriguing nonetheless. Sometimes he was amazed at how any man could be more than all those scars; and sometimes he was saddened to see nothing defined him more.

Elder Brother was familiar with the rumors of the Cleganes. He found the man to be competent, dour, highly intelligent and as rumored, unreservedly brutal. Clegane was a man singularly confident in his own convictions who never did anything in half measures. The rare times he spoke his words had the wit and layered meaning of the highborns; he clearly preferred humor, but never laughed. Thankfully he also never baulked at the perilous or gruesome chores at the Isle, taking orders without issue. Beyond his terribly foul temper, the only fault found was that he was so fueled by enmity that Elder Brother had yet to identify a single thing the man cared for. _Stranger mayhap, a woman_?

Clegane was a deeply private man and the few times his prodding elicited a personal account, he was sorry for it. _Have you ever married, Clegane_? Digger snorted, _"No, life's not suited for it." Nor mine, but there was a woman I favored once, when I was young, but I chose soldiering thinking there'd be more._ Digger was silent for some time before continuing, _"I favored a few, at Casterly Rock. Whores, of course, who were less troubled by my face than the others. Wasn't until the third one disappeared that I found it was Gregor's doing. I didn't favor one again."_

"I _told_her you'd have the porridge," said May, a well met distraction. "You _always_ have the porridge. I brought you a biscuit with strawberry jam too; I helped make it. Here," shoving the biscuit up to his mouth. "The Old Cobbler's coming today, he said he might have shoes for my dolly, real shoes, not painted ones, if I was good. So you'll tell him I was good won't you?" Elder Brother could only nod with mouth full of buttery bread. "There he is! Brother, don't forget."

*******/*******

**Alayne**

_Alayne...Alayne...,_ shaking her, _Darling_? "The cook is here, you lazy bones. Are you sick? I won't tell father you forgot to lock your door, but you best hurry." It was Hugo, she'd slept past the cooks knock and the morning light.

"Sorry, dear. You're dressed!" she called before he ran out.

"Molls got the others up and we've started the story without you. It's about a bear from the north. May insists the bear needs new shoes, which is stupid, but it will turn out alright. Won't it?"

"Yes, there's no reason he shouldn't have new shoes. Go on, I will be but a moment." _I will miss them_, she thought.

She said she was coming, but she didn't want to. She wanted to lie abed and dream about her perfect eve until the midday sun drowned the violet morning light in her small windows. But it had not been perfect, not at all how she had imagined. It _was_ wonderful after their harsh words and his rough hunger settled. She was his now and it was worth the pain. She had heard from more than just her mother that there would be some pain. _Sharp and quick, not at all bad,_ they all said, but they lied. From now on she would just ask Sandor, he would tell her the truth of it.

In her small looking glass Alayne found she would not need to scrub her face, but since she'd been too tired to set her hair she pulled it tight and knotted it at the back. Her lips felt swollen and there was still a pang between her legs, but she enjoyed the memory. She quickly washed, hating to part with Sandor's scent, but taking care just the same.

_"Are you alright, little bird?"_ he had asked. _Yes, my love._ He tried to be gentle and told her the way of it when she asked. Like with her mother, he had not said much, but it was a great comfort. At first, when his hands touched her it was aching and lovely, sweet and wet, blinding and soaring, and so…all-overish. She thought it best not to speak of the last, surely he knew.

_Did I please you Sandor?_ She had watched him lift her leg over his hip and touch himself to her. She had felt another shock of pleasure and the expanding inside her made her breath come hard again. At the start he seemed pleased too. "You were perfect, little bird." She did not think that could be right.

_Did I hurt you_? she'd asked. When Sandor had come in to her she had tried not to resist, but her hips struggled, her thighs too were fussing and her body would not obey. Her lady parts seemed to be fighting him and when he stopped for a moment she begged herself to relax and breathe, but it was a great effort.

_"No,"_ he assured her. But she had seen the grimace on his face as he was pressing and pulling at her. She had prayed for calm and for him to tell her what to do. _Sandor?_ At his name his hips thrust quickly at her and the groans he made said he was fighting it as well. _Sandor, my love_, she had tried again when his thrusts had become jarring. He did not or could not speak. So she wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could, so he would know she had hold of him; _that was the way of it he said_. And with a bass growl from his throat all stopped, settled and lessened.

_Are you certain?_ She'd asked again, but he only glared to tell her she was being stupid. _He was right, he was not hurt, best not to question._ After his finish, she should have been thanking the gods for seeing her through, but all she could think of was her mother. Now she understood: _There was no way to explain it all._

He had not told her he loved her, nor had he said when he would take her away, but surely tonight the words would be spoken. And as she approached the kitchen to start her chores she began planning what to take. The washer was already in giving her a terse look, _it couldn't be that late_. She had never like Denyse, for she was a shallow spiteful woman and Alayne was sure she damaged her garments on purpose. Yet none of that mattered today.

Alayne went about her work in quiet reverie. She found it hard to concentrate and kept thinking of his warmth, his hands, his ease at being naked before her; all the tiny hairs – he was very hairy. Throughout the morning Alayne found that she wanted to touch everything. She longed for the feel of it: copper pots, the varying cloths, the wood flooring, books in library, master Baedon's fine leather chair that no one else dared sit in. She even felt like spreading her fingers wide to run them through the porridge, but they would all think her mad. She was mad; she had called the Butcher with her song and soon they would fly away.

Alayne happily mused on the evening with her beloved; she had given Sandor her love and her gift but.., _would it be enough_? Petyr's teachings had shown her directly that it might not be. And she knew Sandor was a man who mocked all things serious, though would need sound reasoning. _When the fight is in front of you, it is never enough to have one sure plan. Even if there is no fight on your right flank, you must prepare your weapons. If there is no fight seen on your left, still you need a sound strategy for defeat. And most importantly, you must guard against what you cannot see behind you, because that is where the death blow will come. It's a shame your father never learned this else he'd be alive today. And I always heard he was such a good solider, a true _second_ son_.

She was not stupid enough to believe that Petyr knew more about warfare than her father. But he spoke in riddles and she had witnessed his success. She did not like to believe her love a battle, but she would be remiss if tonight she did not come fully prepared to meet Sandor.

*******/*******

**Brother Digger**

It was like a drunkard's dream Digger thought, heading to the main hall to feed the rioting hunger in his belly. The entire evening felt as if he was living some other's life and the morning felt no different. He had woken to a purple haze after a peaceful sleep and found only her scent in his empty bed. The tight feeling in his chest wasn't the usual pain; it was something foreign and more than a little frightening. It was not like the terror of fire, but more like a boy's dread of the monster lying in wait around the corner.

He felt as nervous as a broodmare at seeing her again. When Sansa took her leave she said, _I'll return to you tonight_, but he was more apt to see regret in her eyes than her return. He would try and pretend that it did not matter, try not to be angry or hate her; yet he still had questions. When at the door he had called to her like a mooning calf, "Little bird, you still haven't told me what you want." Instead of telling him outright she merely disobliged him with a jape. _Yes, darling, I have. Perhaps you weren't listening_.

_She-no longer a maiden. And I-a darling_. He could think of nothing more wrong in all the seven kingdoms. His silly little bird had called him _darling_ and it left a sour taste on his tongue. It was as unsuitable as their pairing and it felt like a taunt. The feeling in his chest made him want to leave it all: her, the Isle, the torpor he was settling for. But he could not if there was chance to hold her yet again; to hear her sigh at his touch, to see the strain of her silence as he brought her end. He knew it was wrong to explore his tender feelings. He'd been a boy last time a girl honestly sighed at his touch, and felt if as he was a boy again; that hard, bottomless, foolish lust. He could love her if he knew what it meant, perhaps he already did.

More than anything he wanted to have her _alone_ within the quietude of the Isle, absent anger and suspicion. She must know he'd do anything for her, why hide it? Because it was all a dream, rich in sound and warmth, but as always, hidden in shadows to mask the shame. He was a smart dog and knew Sansa was like one of Gregor's toys, he had taken her when he should not and his folly would come at a very steep cost.

Walking in to the main hall his foolish eyes sought nothing but her. When he saw the pure beauty that had been so freely given, his balls lurched violently, twisting at his toes. She was at work, _the little lady bloody working_, tweeting and gliding, taking plates and filling cups. The noble set to her shoulders had returned with a proud smile so wide it made his own cheeks ache. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was taking notice of her. To him she looked transformed, almost back to her full radiance, announcing to the hall that she was no longer a maiden. _Stupid bird_, but none seemed to bother.

Watching he could see nothing of a child in the woman gliding about the room, but he knew it was there. He'd heard it last night in all the silly words she sang in his arms. _I prayed that you would come and the gods have favored me. Did I please you, Sandor?_ He knew he should stop it now, but there was no way to see himself free.

When she saw him, her eyes lit bright as she tried not to grin wider. She approached him with wares in hand and beamed bashfully. "Darling," she taunted in a low whisper.

"Get hold of yourself, girl," he growled even lower. He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. There was no cause to bark at her for being pleased to see him, he wanted that grin. Quick as a tercel taking flight, Sansa easily feigned the dull broken look she most often wore at Kings Landing. He cursed to see it, the reminder of her abuse and that he was the one to hurt her again.

"Of course, I will bring it straight away," she intoned dully. "Elder Brother is just there." And before she flitted away, _Tonight then_, she whispered just as flat.

"Brother," his companion greeted. "Hope you slept well. Are you breaking your fast on the porridge or stew?" Digger didn't know what the bird had planned.

"I'll eat both if offered." Elder Brother chuckled at that.

"It's a shame about Nolynn, but Alayne does not seem affected. I think she's quite happy with how her new song was received. I hope you were pleased with it as well."

"You didn't lie." Digger had difficulty controlling his own grin, and realized with a start that he was happy and needed to get a hold of himself as well. He was more than thankful for the distraction of the clam and oyster stew brought by the boy.

_Shouldn't have barked at her_, he thought while he ate. The niggling of his underused cock might have him gliding a bit too. He hadn't taken much more than seven strokes himself, but there was no help for it. He had wanted to take her hard, then deep and slow, but her tiny body was fighting him; and gods help him, he loved it. It was the sort of thing his brother favored; never him! She had not lied about being a maiden and sadly her pain became his victory. Despite his vow, he knew it hurt her; _Are you alright?_ was the best he could do.

He had lost his way as she pressed in to him, held him so tightly and spoke his name; _Sandor, Sandor, my love_. In all that he wanted he found he could not withstand the fight and desperately reached for her lips as he emptied himself in to her. She buried her face in his neck; not wanting to look at him he thought. But after, her eyes barely left him; happy longing looks that lasted, just as peaceful as he himself felt.

_Tonight then_. Her last words had stiffened him and the weight was as uncomfortable as ill-fitting armor. He had no idea what he was going to do with her. He could see she had become more shrewd, stronger of mind and body. Clearly she was more adept at games and therefore dangerous, but he doubted he could turn her away if she came again. She had told him her story and he felt certain he knew what she planned to ask in return. When he shared his own he had not told her of Arya, unsure why, but best to be careful after her ambush.

He swore he would not hate her or let her become another revenge, she was not to blame for her current position. She deserved to be the happy lady of castle. It may be that giving her such is what was to come next. He ate and watched her _working_, feeling the acceptance of loss while on the threshold of a great despair.

[12.06.23]


	11. Like a Bird Clings to a Tree

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Sorry for the confusion. I received some much appreciated tough-love after the last post. So reworked a bit of Ch11 to post with next, with the story's end in mind.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content. _

* * *

**Chapter 11.1 – Like a Bird Clings to a Tree**

**Sansa**

She entered the small room without knocking this time, concerned her beloved might send her away. He had barely looked at her in the main hall and had not come to the weirwood when she said she'd be there. Sandor's presence had not once left her mind or body since their parting and she immediately sought his eye. Seeing his predatory gaze brought a full blush to her chest, nevertheless the prickling of her skin calmed her nerves just as steadily.

"You said we would speak tonight," he began. The small clerestory windows of the ground floor allowed enough of the moon's glow at the earlier hour to see the quizzical look upon his uneven face.

"You wish to talk?" she teased lightly yet pleased; she had many things to tell him.

"What did that old man want of you?"

"The Old Cobbler? I am to do some fine stitching for him on a pair of lady's shoes." He snorted. _Does he not approve_? Sansa noted that she must learn these sounds if she meant to understand him. "It is no trouble and Baedon has approved."

"You do the innkeeper's bidding now?"

His words were bitter so she proceeded trying to pacify his sounds, "Darling, I only wish to help where I can." He made another ill noise. "I think words are still not easy between us. Mayhap we should leave them for later." She saw a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been a smile. There would be no ugly words tonight she had decided, setting her linen guise on the table.

Sansa turned to find Sandor's arm outstretched beckoning and with no more hesitation she rushed in to the strong dark peace of his arms. Their kisses were hurried and passionate, and the noises he made now sang to her. When his tongue darted deep Sansa sighed wantonly in to his mouth. She could not recall being so happy as she sat cradled in his lap; kissing his ruined mouth, running her hands over his shoulders and down his chest. Not all his scars were yet known to her, but her diminutive hands greeted the larger ones she had met last night.

Silently his warm plentiful hands began to roam too. His right slid leisurely down the outside of her leg, under her skirts, leaving a fevered heat while travelling back along the same path. When it caressed over the top of her bare thighs her breath became deliberate. This was the musing that burned through her all day; the part she had committed to memory more than the rest. He planted his nose at her neck, smelling her again; she loved that part too and closed her eyes to recline in unladylike fashion.

A small noise escaped her throat as his fingers softly press between her legs. _Oh sweet soaring blindness_. "What do you want of me, little bird?" His amorous whisper was as gentle as the thread of warmth that slid into her belly.

"You." She barely managed, but his hand seemed to be waiting, she tried again. "I only want to be with you." Sansa wondered if she need worry when she felt his frustration waft along her ear.

"You _will_ tell me, girl," he said as his fingers started another dance on sensitive flesh. Her heavy thighs felt weighted down by his fingers alone and the winds of promise rose deliciously at her center. "Is it Baelish you wish killed? Or your lord husband? Who girl?"

"What?" she asked unsteadily. "No." she said short of breath. "Please. I wish.., to hear no more of killing." His hand stirred again, fingers firm in their purpose. Sansa felt dizzy at the sensation and his smell of sweat, mossy wood and the sweet apples from the night's meal added to her haze. When his hand pressed lower, she let out a gasp as she felt him tug at her opening. "Sandor! Is this right?"

"You're w– " he paused. "Yes, pretty bird. You're safe with me." His words were easy yet she wondered at what he would not say.

"I know, my love. I'm sorry." She did not want to fail him with how gentle and good he was being. This new touch was not unpleasant and she was grateful he was telling her things to help her understand what was between them.

Sandor's weight shifted, tilting her back to lay her on the bed. "Wait." He stopped and pulled away so suddenly she felt almost lost. She had done something wrong she realized when he would not look at her. Her concern grew to see he was not at all easy this evening. "I should like this off, please," she carefully explained, tugging at her dress.

He released the breath he was holding and his shoulders subdued. He lifted her effortlessly to stand before him. "At the back?" The question brought a relieved smile to her face; _He's asking me things now_.

"It's not properly tied," she said with a renewed blush. Sansa showed her beloved where to pull and the dress puddled on the floor. Sandor eyes had returned to hers lightened as he fingered the ribbon at the front of her simple shift. "I could not have you tearing up all my things," she added light of heart.

"Sorry," he growled sourly.

"No, darling, you're not. No matter, I rather think I will enjoy mending it." He made a rumble in his throat before freeing the bow and removing her shift. At her nakedness, Sandor pushed back to stared boldly at her. Sansa basked in his gray gaze, having longed to see his admiration, "Am I pleasing to you, Sandor?"

"Yes, silly bird. My cock hasn't stop pressing at me since I heard your song."

"Did you like my song?" _Please, you must_!

Sandor snorted, "You up there, squawking my name to the entire town? No. But you sang me kindly enough tonight."

"I sang you true." She had chosen to sing 'Rough Husband' careful not to make a single mistake.

"Might be."

Sandor seated her on the bed and stood to remove his breeches. She felt feverish to see him so near, swollen in that mass of dark hair and tried to calm herself as he picked her up and laid her out on the bed. He ran a worn hand over her belly putting his fiery heat back in to her. He brought his hand up to roll thoughtfully along her neck before holding her face steady in his rough thick fingers. "Are you ready, little bird? You feel ready."

"Will you come in to me again?" She asked to be sure; she could bear it.

"Yes. I must," he said thickly, not hiding his hunger.

Since his eyes said he would not likely hear her later Sansa thought to ask for the only help she could think of, "Then I should like you to use your _Man's Magic_ on me."

"My what?" he scoffed. "That how highborn girls speak of a man's cock?" _Oh gods, no_! She was making a fool of herself again. _Damn Randa_! She knew better than to listen to her nonsense. Sansa saw the sparkling in his eyes; he was laughing at her. _I wish he wouldn't._

"Ye' ah…and your eyes."

"Anything else, little bird?" He was clearly laughing at her then, but she would not be dissuaded.

"Will you tell me I'm yours, Sandor?" She heard his breath come hard and watched his brow pinch again.

"Let me settle in first, sweet pearl. Then I'll tell you whatever you wish to hear."

*******/*******

**Sandor**

Sandor thought that perhaps he could best the lady at her own game to find the truth. _I want you my love_, she said, but he found it impossible not to respond to her words or the womanly curves under his grasp. He knew he should leave some of her innocence to her future husband, but in truth he wanted her to think only of him.

He had not been able to discredit his tender feelings and found he could not take her in the seedy way his cock craved. He did not wish deny her; she was everything good and wholesome he'd ever had. The girl thought there was to be more between a man and a woman and foolish or not, when he looked at her he wanted it too.

His sweet bird turned on her side to face him without command. Sansa did not look at all fearful at his approach, so he kissed her gently, reminding himself he must not hurt her. When he pressed in to her, Sandor fought off the self-loathing that threatened. Her hips squirmed and strained against the large hand overriding her struggle and a tremble hummed through him as her body surrendered in acceptance.

He was mindful of any signs he should halt and her heat boiled through him as he moved on towards wet dark sounds. But Sandor started to lose his way again when Sansa placed a hand on his scarred cheek and tightly wrapped her left arm around his neck as if to choke him. He clamped his lips against her mouth and grabbed her hand to steady her, as he pressed in to and retreated from all she gave.

_Gods she's perfect_._ I don't deserve her_. He abruptly dislodged himself, giving up her hand to quickly place his own between her legs. "You're mine, little bird," he dared; affirming control of his body and attending her closely. Her soft moans were near too much at her finish; driving his own need selfish and quicker than he could draw a dagger he was in her again. When the tremor in his thighs threatened his own end, he tore sharply away from her again to spill his seed.

Little bird's eyes went wide like a startled rabbit. _The girl will likely think I pissed on her_, he callously thought. He had no strength to explain and grabbed her arse to pull her close and simply said, "Wait, little bird." Littlefinger might be able to explain away her maidenhead, but a bastard in her belly, he could not. As she tucked in to him, he ran his fingers through her rich hair to soothe them both. "Are you alright, little bird?"

"Yes, my love." She pressed closer and whispered. "It was better." He silently gloated at the soft surprise in her voice. Her eyes looked to him searching and shining. _Then don't bloody cry now, woman_! "You give me peace, Sandor, which I have not felt since Winterfell." Sandor understood the value of peace; he'd searched a lifetime for it and found it in her.

Sandor rose from the bed. "Don't move," he barked as he dug among the linens she placed on the table. There he found a small cloth and unexpectedly, a small flask. _Careful dog, the girl's up to something_; it was a painful ill-timed reminder that peace would never find him. After washing himself, he re-soaked the cloth in the basin and went to the little bird to wash away his foulness. "What's this?" he asked dropping the flask in her hand.

"It's Baedon's, something he makes for himself in the alehouse. I thought you might like it." Sandor grabbed at the flask, uncapped it and took a long swig. The liquid burned fiercely down his throat. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted and his assessment of Baedon rose higher. He liked the burn, knew he needed the burn for whatever was to come next.

*******/*******

**Sansa**

She watched Sandor as he took pulls from Baedon's flask and washed her. She loved the gentle care he took with her, his delicacy no longer surprising; so unlike the monstrous Hound the rest of the world saw.

"What's this?" he asked startling her. His fingers mapped the bruises he left on her hip the night before. "What else?" he asked with a sharp look. "Show me!" he pressed in anger.

"Only here." Sansa showed him the three faint yellow marks on her right breast. There was a smaller darker bruise under her arm which she tucked tight to hide. "It's nothing, darling. It does not hurt me." She heard a furious growl from his throat as he rose to pace the room.

"Please, come back," she said begging him abed. She wanted to rest in his arms and speak softly as they did last night; she had never felt such closeness with anyone. Sandor said nothing as he lay down on his stomach with his feet hanging off the end. His eyes rested crossly on the marks at her hip. At his withdrawal, Sansa climbed atop the large expanse of his back to get better hold of him. She rested her chin in the hollow of his neck and shoulder and waited, trying to think of comforting words.

"You've grown quiet again, little bird. Like last night."

"It is how I was taught; as little as it was. My mother said that after lying with one's husband a wife should continue to follow his wishes. Listen if he talks, leave him with his thoughts or sleep if his mind is heavy. Or to let him take you again if that is his desire."

"Your mother was a fine lady," she was taken aback. "Ask your questions if we're to talk."

She started, careful of his mood. "Will you take me with you when you leave tomorrow?" Another ill noise.

"No, little bird, you cannot come with me," he said flatly. "And Elder Brother would never allow it."

"Of course. There is time." Sandor remained silent. She wondered if it was just the bruises or also the drink which had turned him to brooding. "How long will you stay there?"

"Haven't decided; don't know what's to come next."

"Where do you think we'll go?" He did not answer for some time.

"_We_? No, little bird. You wouldn't be safe with me." Petyr was right; this was the battle she falsely thought won.

_Patience_, she mutely intoned, "I'm yours, darling. You said you could keep me safe and you _have_. I want to go with you, Sandor, it's all I want."

"I am not meant for you, girl. I'm a butcher. And a deserter now; hiding away like a craven. And I'm not fit to protect a girl proper." His silence was thick, letting her think on his words. "You have a duty to behold, Sansa. Your children will be the last of the Stark blood. You know this without me telling it."

_Strength_, "I don't care for any of it, my love." He was soundless. "Do you think I'm only meant for a kindly lord or a generous loving king?" careful to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "And what of a bastard barmaid, could you take her with you?" He snorted with a deep tired sigh. "Do you not see that I am stronger and smarter now? I have thought fully on this and know what it is right."

"Smarter?" he grunted derisively. "Doesn't seem so. You gave your gift to a dog. To see you like this, I don't know you at all, _my lady_." His words were like needles of ice, stitching a deep chill in to her bones. "The honor of you family is at stake. The mother you speak of, her words make it so."

_Direwolf_, "The Stark words are _Winter is Coming_. My children will be Stark-Clegane and we need you, my love." She felt the muscles in his shoulders tense at her words.

"I have wronged you enough already. And this is no fairytale. I can see to killing for you, see to improving your situation. But I'm a soldier and have no skill for more."

"I will not be without you, Sandor." He did not respond so she bravely left it.

Sansa moved to trail her hand along his back where she had access to another collection of scars. She told herself she mustn't cry as she ran her lips softly along the ridges. Her own lack of panic surprised her; if he had voiced these words last night she would have been beside herself in grief. But she had his strength inside her now; and they had time. She knew that to push him would be a grave mistake. Even though he would leave tomorrow, there was still hope and there was still more to tell him.

She waited until she feared he was drifting off to sleep. "Darling?" _Hum_? "What do you think my strongest weapon is?"

"Your eyes," he said without hesitation. The answer was the perfect token of hope.

"No, I mean as a woman. What is any woman's strongest weapon?"

"Her cunt. _'Flower'_ you highborns probably call it."

"Cersei told me the same, on the night you came for me; though I was loath to believe her. I know now it's true. It is all that I am now, Sandor. It's all any of them wish use me for."

"Cersei's a bloody whore and the Lannisters may not rule for long. Best not think on what she says."

"I _think_ you are only one who will ever see me as more." She waited, but he would not comfort her. "I can make you happy, Sandor." _Hrmphh_. "I swear it," she whispered. He pulled her down from his back and hugged her close with a gentle hand.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

His bird who was so blessedly pleasing one moment was killing him the next. The little lady had defeated him again, beating him fiercely with her words. She had the right of it; words were no good between them and his thoughts had become dreadfully queer after seeing his marks on her unsullied skin.

While looking for the flask, Sandor pulled her down in to his chest and covered her whole head with his hand to silence her. Sansa didn't know what she was asking and he still believed there was more she'd not said. It might be as simple as wanting to be delivered to the lord of her choosing or as ridiculous as wanting him to return to her all of Winterfell. At the thought of her leaving him the tight feeling in his chest weighed heavily.

"No one can swear such a thing, little bird," he felt too drained to fight given how precisely this woman filled his own wounds.

"I have seen it, Sandor, and if you will listen I must tell you." Her voice was so quiet perhaps he could pretend not to hear. "The heart-tree showed me our hereafter."

"Just a dream, girl." _Spare me from the bloody gods old and new_.

"Yes, darling, it has been my dream for so very long. I would not have believed it if the wood had not spoken to me too." _Where is that damn flask_? He looked again only to find her eyes fixed on him. "I prayed each day that you were safe and that I would be with you again. The wood told me to be patient and strong; so I was. And you have come." _Was this Littlefinger's doing?_ She wasn't smarter if she thought he would fall to such a tale. "Will you not ask me what the wood showed me?"

"Tell it if you must. And give me that damn flask." He did not want to hear it! _Words are naught but wind_, he reminded. Taking another pull from the flask, he thought to shake her senseless until she saw there would be no happy ending for either of them.

"It was you and I sitting together with our two sons, Jon and Edgane. All of us looked upon a new babe, our daughter. We were happy, darling, and safe I think."

_Two sons and a girl_… He felt near bloodless and well embodied in her torments, but managed a mock, "No name for the girl in your tree-dream?"

"You had not chosen one yet." _Damn me._ "You said, _'If the bloody trees got to name my sons, I'm damn well going to name my girl!'_"

_Mharipose_…

This _was_ his fucking seventh hell; the bird seemed to already know how to hurt him most. Yet she had not lied; in all her looks, the sound of her words, he had yet to hear a falsehood. _I'm yours, darling, it's all I want_. He had no idea what to do with her.

"Your strongest weapon is your words, little bird. And I think you know it well. Hush now, it's late."

The lady would not obey. "I know you doubt me, darling. But promise me, before I go, that you will you come again."

"If that is what the lady wishes."

"No. Promise _me_, your little bird." Sandor did not wish to deny her anything.

[12.06.30]


	12. Long Gone Day

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Transitional chapter, with borrowed/reworded Churchill quote on mistakes.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 12 – Long Gone Day**

**Digger**

"Elder Brother! Would you escort Alayne in to town?" There she was again; stalking him like the familiar nightmare to which he had awakened. He had fought Gregor and a crow pecking at his burnt flesh in the dream this time. Digger had felt a miserable and alone at the thought of leaving, but now the horses were ready all that he wanted was to go.

Alayne stood at ease with her face passive, but those Tully blue eyes cut deeply in to him, probing at the hope he had buried solidly within. He could not deny she _was_ stronger now, he'd seen it the moment he realized it was her on that platform singing his sad song. "She has business with the Old Cobbler and I cannot find Hugo to take her."

_Take her_, echoed. He wanted to and thought perhaps he could protect her, certain that he was not prepared to let her become some pawned cunt. More than anything he wanted to bring her with him to the Quiet Isle; where he could think clearly and where she could tell him her truth. Sansa was the most beautiful thing he had ever known, and what she gave to him at the Strongsong was more beautiful still. She made him feel whole, while at the same time made him feel weak, ugly and destructive as she always did.

"It would be a pleasure. Are you ready, Alayne?"

"Yes, Brother." Her voice was the same dull knife it had been in the main hall. Each time she came near he had fought to keep his hands fixed on the table. He wrestled the urge to snatch her up like a pathetic mutt and dash away to chew on her some more. When Alayne walked towards them he did not hesitate. He crouched to reach for her and slid his hands around her tiny waist. He swung her up on to the mare and began walking them both towards the harbor town. If Stranger had been with him, he might have run.

She did not speak as Elder Brother struggled to catch up with creaking cart in tow. "Are you alright, Alayne?" he asked.

"I'm quite well, Elder Brother. Thank you for seeing me to town." Digger kept his eyes on the road while Alayne hummed. His disquiet was lulled by her sounds and the undulating movement of her leg against the horse's muscled step. In his own step, he began to weight all that was good and wrong in the madness of stealing her away. He no longer had to worry that Gregor would take her from him. And he had some money; very little with him, more hidden if it was still there. _It's Gentle Mother she sings_, he realized with an ache.

Yet to take her away would be imprudent when he could not give her a proper home and the happy family she longed for; he had nothing and no one but her. He might have the strength to stand aside and watch as she wed another, but it wouldn't be long before he did something horrible she could never forgive. Watching her with Baedon's pups he had seen how well suited she was for motherhood; like a benevolent commander raising an army disciplined in grace. _Mine is a story of death and hate_, he did not want such a story for her.

"Elder Brother, I should like to ask you; how long have you been at the Quiet Isle and visiting the Strongsong?"

"It's been some time, since we saw the last winter," he replied to her.

"Are there any Sisters at the Quiet Isle?" _This is trouble_, Digger suspected. He did not like the idea of little bird pulling Elder Brother in to her games. It rekindled his ill temper at failing to get the full truth of her plan. It would be much simpler if he would trust her. If he could believe she wanted a secluded life together as much as he did.

"Not presently, but we do have women that pass through, some from the Order. We have seen surprising few as of late, considering the war."

"Passing? Why do they come?"

"Never you mind," said Digger rasped harshly.

"What Brother Digger means is both men and women come often requiring help and we do not speak of it. Have _you_ thought of joining the Order?"

"No, my father insists my duty is to wed, but I do not care for it." With the horse's next step, her foot bounced out to tap his arm. Did she mean to call upon Elder Brother's pity? She sorely misjudged the man if she believed such tactics would work.

"Alayne, you will be as fine a wife and mother as you are a daughter. You must trust your father to make a proper match."

"I am afraid I have deceived you, Brother," Sandor's head snapped left, _don't be stupid girl_, "if you believe I am good. I am a willful woman who wants to make her own match. For love. Do you think me awful now?"

_Ah, clever girl_. It wasn't pity, it was mystery. _No one knows the maid's story for true_. Elder Brother didn't have a chance against her weapons.

"No, of course not, just very young. Do you_ have_ a love…"

"There's the Cobbler! Brother Digger?" Alayne reached her hand out for help down as she spoke to Elder Brother. "His new shop is just there. Thank you for bringing me." He'd been mistaken; the girl was not plotting just tweeting her courtesies. With her hands placed lightly on his shoulders, Sansa met his eyes on the way down and gave him twisted smile to match her mischievous look. _Damn woman_! She was playing with _him_; dogged in her pursuit, and gods help him he liked it.

*******/*******

**Elder Brother**

He had been too distracted by Alayne to realize they had reached the harbor town still bustling in its rebuilding. When Brother Digger had swiftly picked her up to set her on his horse, he worried the woman might cry out, but she seemed at ease with him today.

"Are you safe unattended until the boy comes?" Digger asked with surprising concern.

"Of course, Brother. The Old Cobbler will see me safe." Digger made an unpleasant noise as they walked towards the shop, "He talks only of work and his wife; he favors her still. Did you know his wife, Elder Brother? I heard she was the most beautiful woman in the Saltpans; some say too lovely for such a plain old man."

"Yes it is true. Evange died of an ague three years back. We talked of plants and medicines; she was a lovely healer and very kind." Her skills were sorely missed when the Saltpans had been destroyed.

"The Old Cobbler told me there wasn't a single Panman that did not seek her hand. Not even his finest shoes could win her."

"I suspect it's true. Evange was not an inconstant woman; quite intelligent, actually." He had been half in love with her himself.

"Then you may like to know, it was the Cobbler's mother that told him how to win her. Said he was to love her _far more_ than any other; so he did. And do you what he told me?"

"What?" he asked, with a broad smile to match Alayne's grin.

"He said to love her simply _stuck_, like pitch on one's shoe." Her merry laugh was a sweet melody. "A love as sticky as pitch: is that not wonderful?" Alayne's melody was interrupted by the most awful sound and it took him a moment to realize that Digger was laughing too.

"Oh, I must go," she finished when the Cobbler beckoned. "Brother Digger?" she called from the door. He looked to him as well. "Thank you." Beyond the uncomfortable twitching of his burned cheek, Digger's face was unreadable.

They were late in going and if they did not hurry the night's camp would be made in darkness. Digger seemed to be in a fair mood and Elder Brother thought it as good a time as any to bring up an unpleasant topic. "I know the journey was not comfortable for you, but in your room… Well, about that whore…"

Brother Digger surged forward to overpower him more quickly than he thought the man capable. He could feel his hot breath on his face as Digger stood menacing and growling before him. "Don't!" In his eyes he saw the true depth of the man's cruelty and knew he would be dead if another word was spoken.

*******/*******

Digger's mood had not improved after their return to the Quiet Isle. Something was deeply troubling the man. He was again seeped in bitter torment as when he first arrived. Digger had asked to move to the West Watch when the builder group was near finished with the new cottage. Originally the West Watch was no more than a craggy hill cave, a miniature of the Hermit's Hole, but was being expanded to a small quarter.

Digger still kept his place near the graveyard, which no one else would take, they preferred the busy cloisters to the stench. He arrived at the common hall for meals each morn, joined the Brothers for the midday meal and relentlessly did his work. He would return west just before dinner, taking little food or drink, though he stayed on the main ground occasionally to work with one of the craftsmen. Elder Brother heard he was making tools and was surprised by odd things he saw of the man's own design. They didn't look like weapons.

Elder Brother thought the solitude was a mistake, but chose to trust Digger's judgment. Since his foul temper had returned there had been a few incidences and the Brother had not spoken a word to anyone. Even in their private conversations he was met with nothing more than grunts and nods. Returning to the Saltpans might too be a mistake, but he would make the offer, knowing the man needed to accustom himself at some time.

When Elder Brother went to see him he was amazed at the luxury of the West Watch cottage. "I'm returning to the Saltpans in three days' time if you would like to come." He did not get a yes or no from Digger, but did get a list of items for purchase along with coin.

Digger had done much work beyond the simple construction. _Noble luxuries he was used to mayhap_. He was astonished by all the amenities: the large privy, the clever wall that hid the cave behind, the stable and cook areas, and the way the water was diverted from the small stream for better access. Most of all he was impressed by how immaculate everything was, including the plants and flowers that made the whole area almost dreamlike. There were also tubs everywhere, of various shapes and sizes and he asked, "What are all those?"

"Mistakes. A few I will use. Take the rest of the damn things if you like."

"I will gladly, we always need tubs for washing and bathing. What did you seal them with?"

"Pitch."

Elder Brother asked nothing further, choosing rather to praise his work before leaving the man to labor on his lonely creation.

*******/*******

**Baedon**

Baedon wanted to find Mary before going to town to pay his debts; it was not wise to leave just Molls in charge though she was capable enough. He despised slowly paying off his debts to old friends much in need, but safety was more important than his pride, therefore he heeded Petyr's requests so as not to draw attention.

Baedon was the youngest of eight children, born long after the last. There had been much talk about who is father was, but he had enough of the look and build of the Baedon bloodline that all gossip stopped after his birth. He was grateful to have been sent to his brother in the Saltpans at such a young age. The Fingers was an isolated place that bred goats, boredom and petty jealousies. The Saltpans was his home and as much as he hated his nephew he would do his bidding if it meant protecting his family; now and after his death.

He knew he would find Mary in the alehouse with May, who wanted to hear Alayne and the Lefric brothers practicing. Their youngest brother, Cryn, worked there and seemed to enjoy the company, perhaps because he was the only Lefric in the family with no musical talent to speak of.

Walking in to the alehouse Baedon heard the music, but his ear was drawn to little May who sung loud and clumsily. Unlike her sister, she also seemed devoid of any musical talent, but time would tell. He approached to stand beside Mary, then tuning out May he listened to Alayne's smooth pure voice.

_You're mine love, and you will come,  
__You're mine love, and you'll be won,  
__You're mine love. I call out your name,  
__And I pray in the wind each day._

When the song finished, Laurry looked to him and expectantly asked, "What do you think Baedon? Do you like it well enough to allow it?" All save Mary looked eagerly to him. He'd never been asked to approve a song before, but he knew well why they were asking now. Alayne's previous songs had been about love, but they mostly told its story. This song was much about longing and was sure to create more than a few disturbances at the Inn.

Baedon looked to Mary and did not have to ask what she wanted. They had been together over ten years and she had become like a brother in arms. He knew when she would react, how quick and how strongly; and she always stood defiantly by him even when they disagreed. He'd never had any desire for her before he went off to fight. He had been in love with Evange for as long as he could remember, but when he returned from battling King Aerys, there was no doubt that she was the woman for him.

"Yes, I'll allow it. Mary, I'm heading for town," he said leaving.

Mary followed him out and in to the Strongsong's main hall and May trailed along singing her own tuneless account: _A wild wind blows. You're mine! You're mine!_ Over the din Mary asked, "That song may bring trouble, Marc, why did you agree?"

"Because you're mine and I want you to remember it." Mary shook her head like he was a madman, but he knew she was pleased by his rare affections.

*******/*******

"Well that settles it," the Old Cobbler said.

"Settled? No. You've gotten muddled in your old age, I owe you at least the same," replied Baedon. When the Cobbler refused he demanded to know why.

"Alayne," he simply said.

"I didn't realize her needle was that skilled. If so, you need pay her directly. Not my account."

"The stitching she's done for your girls and for me is quite good, though she is slower than my son Reg. And I do pay her; though last week she took trade in books and scraps of leather. I believe the leather was for something she's making for the children," he added at his quizzical look.

"I still don't understand old man." Baedon was distressed by his generosity. The Old Cobbler had meant more to him over the years than the tenuous relationship he had with Petyr. He felt shamed by his dilemma and decided he would send one of his boys back in time to see to the balance.

"You recall my wife?" he asked sounding forlorn.

"Of course I do. She may not have told you, but I asked for her hand once. She was stitching up a wound to my arm and I did not want to miss my chance, thinking you'd be dead from old age soon."

"Yet I am older still," he laughed. "She told me. You couldn't have been more than ten."

"Eleven and a half year, but I meant every word."

"Evange had a beautiful voice for song, much like Alayne's. She reminds me of her. And to hear her sing this old man's heart is full again. I just may outlive you, Baedon."

"Well, she has a new song, one I think you'll enjoy. Come to the Inn, let Mary feed you and I will ask Alayne to sign it just for you."

*******/*******

**Alayne**

She had cried herself to sleep the night Sandor had left, but maintained it was from loneliness rather than despair. Though he had not readily accepted the promise of the heart-tree, she didn't doubt that he loved her. The words he used to push her away had been resigned, not hateful, and she knew no man could touch a woman the way he touched her without true love in his heart.

So she vowed to herself the next day that she would cry no more. He promised he would come and after all she had survived she refused to give up hope. She was determined not disgrace her family, herself or Sandor and therefore employed her mind in planning their leave. She needed to prove to her beloved that she was strong enough to survive the rugged life that was ahead and there were many things she still did not know.

She had met the change from Wingerfell to Kings Landing with aplomb, although followed it with dismal failure after father died. When she had first become Alayne it had been difficult, but with Petyr's help she managed well enough. Then so far from Sansa Stark, the transition to the Strongsong had been much easier, since she had learned to hide at the Eyrie, lie with a simple gesture and adapt swiftly to expectant looks.

However, becoming Sandor's wife, or the Hounds lover, would not be as easy a journey. So she increased her reading and wove the new tales in to the Strongsong stories with the children. She combed Baedon's library for books on adventure and romance, looking for evidence on what their travel would be like. She dug through books with maps of Westeros and lands beyond, but found there was no way to memorize it all and moved her focus to languages where tomes were available. Alayne had also traded with the Old Cobbler for two very good books on plants that she enjoyed immensely.

She had no idea where they would go: North, South, or across the sea to Essos. So she started to gather basic items of use, concealing them well. She would need things for mending; clothes, or _Gods help us_, wounds. They would need warm fabrics, as well as medicines, but the second proved to be too expensive or the containers too impractical, so she settled for purchasing only the ingredients to dye her hair. She spent as much time in the kitchen as she could to learn more of cooking, but no one wanted her there, always shooing her away.

She kept herself sufficiently distracted in preparation as the full moon neared. Yet the one worry she could not set aside was whether or not Sandor could forgive her. She had made mistakes back at Kings Landing, errors that killed her father, his men, and started the war that stole the rest of her family. With all the blood on her hands perhaps she did not deserve forgiveness, but she desperately needed it, and Sandor seemed like the only man who could grant her such mercy. _You will make mistakes in life, but as long as you are generous and true, and also fierce, you will not dishonor your family_, her father instructed.

Alayne continued to pray and to call upon her father's sigil when needed but as each day passed her optimism and joy grew. She had so much hope, and she was in love, and both felt wondrous after the many losses she had suffered. Alayne soon reached the point where it was hardly possible to conceal her excitement. 'The Wild Song' was fine-tuned and finish. She had her wadmal sack most efficiently packed and hidden and she was near finished making small gifts for each of the children. She knew Elder Brother always came on the week's fourth day before the full moon. And she was elated to think of how pleased Sandor would be at her arrangements.

When the two men entered the main hall in brown-and-dun robes Alayne's breath caught and her heart began to pound. She immediately approached Clay, who was tuning his instrument. "Tonight I will sing 'So Long'," she said. "Please, Clay, I promise I will sing 'the Wild Song' tomorrow," she replied to his question. _Why_?

_Because he did not come_, crestfallen she watched Elder Brother and Brother Pull being seated.

*******/*******

**Stranger**

_His man was consumed with memories of her and a dread for the open space of his bed. In the morning he felt her touch like a whisper and in sleep he discovered her again. He wanted to howl like a gut torn dog and hate swelled fierce when he did, yet answer was only the bleating of sheep on the ridge and the wail of the wind._

[12.07.05]


	13. A Wild Wind Blows

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**:  
**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 13 – A Wild Wind Blows**

**Digger**

Every morning when Digger mounted Stranger he wasn't sure if he would ride to the Saltpans or to the common. Nor was he sure when he arrived if his decision made him some buggering true knight or a craven. So his body kept working and his mind kept churning, thinking that when the cottage was done he would know what to do with the girl. That night, in the glow of the setting sun, Digger found himself sweating over the stable rail _again_. The damn thing was never fucking strong enough or set deeply enough. He had tried two different types of wood and this was the _third_ bloody time… _The third time_… And then he knew: _A fucking craven_.

Looking out across the brackish sound, his eyes marked the dim outline of the Saltpans. Little bird was there waiting for him, because he promised he would come; yet here he was pissing in self-hatred and digging up every delay. He had lived on the edge of dark beastly emotions for so long that he had no sense for soft merciful things. All trust had been blackened within him before he was even a man. But if he could be brave enough to take her at her word now… _I could have her_; perhaps only for a little while, but it would be something beyond gold or measure. He could cloak himself in all her grace and wrap her just as securely in arms of protection, to use his brutality in her honor as his will had long demanded.

When he first saw Sansa Stark in Winterfell, he was drawn to her beauty like any man. He never meant to frighten her when he first dared approach, but there was no bloody reason to soften his manner for one so proper. Yet the hate he felt for all highborns never seemed to touch her. Even when Sansa turned away from him she tried to cover her revulsion with courtesies. She did so because it was the kind thing to do. No one ever worried about being kind to a dog. And that was her perfection: she was pure, virtuous and kind in all that she did. He never understood how Eddard Stark could allow it; it was unnatural to leave anyone so vulnerable. Her perfectly proper little upbringing made her weak and with each look she made him weak as well. At court she had spun him in circles, leaving him feeling hollow, gruesome and destructive. But the little bird had no trouble looking at him now. And she said she was his.

He turned his gaze towards the flat lands leading to the Gods Eye. _There are plenty of places to hide in Westeros, or lands beyond, _and with any damn luck they would never be found. He need only be brave enough to speak with her again; to explain what it meant for them both to be hunted, living rough on the road, and then… he would let her decide.

*******/*******

**Alayne**

Everything had been busy for some while at the Strongsong Inn and this night was no exception. The _kings_ of the land had renewed their battle at sea and most captains of the merchant ships chose to secure their livelihood by staying in harbor. There wasn't enough entertainment or lodging in the shattered town to suit all the outsiders, hence the rowdy repercussions had many of the townsfolk coming to Baedon's inn for a reprieve.

The work though exhausting was a well met, absorbing days and nights to shorten the passing of time. Alayne had been heartsick for weeks, so much so that she had made herself tangibly ill. Sandor's strength seemed to eddy to and fro, leaving her tired and achingly lonely without him. She continued in her reading, but the effort and the worry made her head pound. Even Mary found it necessary to chastise her behavior: _You were all sweetness and courtesies, happily infecting everyone with your love songs_. _Now you are sickness and sorrow; it will not do_. _Shall we send for a maester_?

_No maester, please_! Conceding Mary was right, Alayne rehearsed her lies during her morning routine, they seemed to be piling up again; as steep as the dishes she carried from the main hall. It helped when she ate proper and met a full night's sleep; and that the wood had not abandoned her. She never missed her daily devotions at the foot of the heart-tree. The familiar fraternal murmur of the leaves encouraged strength and patience, but now also family and love. She gathered all those memories close like a shield, along with Sandor's promise and the rare laugh he had given her before he rode away.

No matter how busy she was, however, she could not forget this was the fourth day. Each time she felt the wind blow in or heard the creak from the heavy carved door, her eyes darted around secretly begging for any sign of the Brothers. _Tonight he will come_.

"Molls will be out shortly with more crusted bread. Is there anything else I can see to?" Alayne shifted away to see Hugo waving to her near the large hearth warming the hall. Responding to Mattie's inquiry about dessert, her heart stopped in her throat to see Elder Brother walk through the main entrance. "The strawberry pie," she replied as the staccato beat started again. "Pardon me," hastily taking leave to greet him.

"Elder Brother, it is nice to see you again," Alayne blurted. "Shall I have uncle Baedon see to your rooms?" Her eyes were fixed on the door. She wanted to ask after Brother Digger, but recalling the overtly curious look Brother Pull had given her arrested the urge.

"Yes, please. We'd like two rooms, downstairs if available. And I'd like to join the carpenter while there's still space."

"Of course," she complied escorting him to the table. When she turned back towards the door Alayne froze in place, staring at the tall dark man at the entrance. She had to bite down to stop the bursting giggle from escaping her lips. _You have come_! Alayne pulled back the long loose waves of her hair and took three quick steps to her left, "Clay, I will sing 'the Wild Song' tonight. Please tell Laurry." _Tonight it will be perfect_.

Approaching Brother Digger she was scarcely able to contain herself. She thought, _he must have magic_, at how strong and secure she felt just at the sight of him. _Oh merciful gods, thank you. This is right_. He looked thinner than she recalled, but all concerns were stalled by his dark comfortable warmth spilling in to her. "Welcome Brother," she beamed, leaning in slightly to take his scent. "I knew you'd come."

The Brother nodded and in a whisper rasped, "I'm here to speak with you."

_Tonight_, she mouthed. "We have yet to see to your rooms, but there is a place for you there, at the back. I'll send Baedon right over. Shall I bring you a strong red?"

"I'll wait here," making use of the beggars bench. Alayne hated to walk away; she wanted to wrap her arms around him, to hear more of his growling voice, but they could risk no further notice.

She carried out her work in the main hall, greeting and serving, no longer in false masquerade. She felt light and free and intoxicated by Sandor's presence. No matter where she was in the room she could feel him, smell him, knew he was there watching only her. It was good he wanted to talk she knew well how to listen. _Tonight we will settle it_, she hoped. Her sack was still readily packed and she delighted in the fancy that on the sixth day she might be leaving this place and the impending doom of Sansa Stark. _Oh dear_, she had completely forgotten to tend to Hugo.

Clay nodded to her before rising amidst the cheerful chattering to announce her song. The patrons seemed to enjoy 'the Wild Song', but did not sing along as they did with the others. Perhaps because not once had she been full enough of heart to sing the song the way she truly meant to. The Lefric brothers had cautioned that the song itself was a bit wild and best presented if she let the music carry as equally as her voice. _Not tonight_. She stepped upon the platform determined to sing loud and true.

_A wild wind blows near the sea,  
__I am alone and heartsore,  
__Like a morn dream that escapes me,  
__I remember a time before._

_You're mine love, and you will come,  
__You're mine love, and you'll be won,  
__You're mine love. I call out your name,  
__And I pray in the wind each day._

_Wild storm blows like a tempest,  
__I'm your foolish little bird,  
__Worried, hiding in my nest,  
__Now longing for your rough words._

_You're mine love, and you will come,  
__You're mine love, and you'll be won,  
__You're mine love. I call out your name,  
__And I wait in the wind each day._

_A wild wind howls in despair,  
__The silent lies I have cried,  
__For all the mistakes I bear,  
__To you love I've never lied._

_You're mine love, and you will come,  
__You're mine love, and you'll be won,  
__You're mine love. I call out your name,  
__I sing for you in the wind each day._

Alayne had tried not to look to Sandor as she sang, but sought out his eyes alone before the song echoed their first night together.

_A wild breeze blows like a gift,  
__The northern light will not go,  
__Blue to gray and rough to soft,  
__Tonight there is much to know._

It was a mistake; his look was not happy. She could see something was wrong and quickly averted her gaze so as not to ruin it all.

_You're mine love, and you have come.  
__You're mine love, and you are won.  
__You're mine love. I call out your name.  
__I sing for home in the wind each day._

Alayne did not look back again until the last line begged a home with her beloved. Sandor's eyes were wide and white with fear, much like the last night he came to her chambers. His face was so pale, he seemed near panic and she felt its resonance. Unsure if she was more afraid for him or herself, she could not look away from the muted shake of his head, _No_.

Alayne smiled falsely and nodded to the patrons' applause as she watched him rise to retreat from the table. He was unsteady and faltered in to Elder Brother's grasp before lurching to a stance to make his leave. She swiftly made her way down the platform towards the entrance. On her approach, she was little able to stop herself from reaching out to him. "I can't," he said. And he was gone.

*******/*******

It was earlier than wise, yet all had retired to their rooms and she could wait no longer to speak with him. She did not understand what had made him so upset. Perhaps he had decided not to take her with him and _that_ she could not allow now. She had come tonight prepared to win him once more; if he would only tell her what was wrong she was sure she could mend it. When she heard the noise from his room, she called to her wolf, ready for battle.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

Fear had flowed over him like the billowing smoke of a great fire. The utter peace he had felt at seeing his little bird again blew hotly away with her song. When she sang out her words of love he suddenly felt trapped; all he could see was each new hole he dug in the graveyard, imagining it was her body he was lowering in to it. It was a familiar nightmare, but tonight it was too fucking real. He was choked by it, his lungs burning for breath as she chirped 'you are mine, you are won'. _Buggering hell_!

His heart beat wildly and he reached for his knife wanting to cut away his robes to find a full sustaining breath. The panic had him fighting for his life; he hadn't had an attack like that since he was a boy. His only thought was to hurl himself in to any Stranger's darkness, overwhelmed by the sense that her death was certain to come at his hands. Tonight he saw that a quick death by enemy attack or one of Littlefinger's poisons would be a blessing. To leave with him would mean a slow death, delivered with each one of his blind failures; he could not bear to watch her withdraw in to that small safe corner of her mind every time his leash slipped off.

He had foolishly thought if he could bring her to the Isle, show her what he had done, it might be enough. But the shitty little cottage was nothing compare to her glory, her refined upbringing, her… _Gods_! _Fool_, with him there would be no bed, no roof, no lemon cakes, nothing but tears and death. He was a man would had succumbed without a fight to the seduction of revenge, violence and rage; hell he embraced it. The best he could offer her was detachment as he tried to shield her from himself as much as the rest of the world.

Why could the stupid bird not bloody tweet for him in private? It was too much. He couldn't even fucking escape properly; tripping over his chair, gasping like a dying grayling. He did care what she thought, _I am a craven_!

Years of instinct declared that strong wine would end this misery. So he kept walking, looking for a dark hole where he could lick his wounds; and if he could relieve some poor fool of his sword, all the better.

*******/*******

**Elder Brother**

Elder Brother found it impossible to sleep, that damn stone was still nagging in his boot. If it were not for Digger he would be in bed asleep now; he longed for these restful times away from the responsibilities of the Quiet Isle. He knew he should leave it, but the man had been so stricken when he left and he needed to see him well.

Digger clearly took issue with Alayne's songs, but Elder Brother struggled to understand why. The 'Wild Song' was about a woman who stood tall saying 'I love you' and begging to be loved in return. Whether the man simply scorned the sentiment or knew it too well, he was far too upset for them to stay. Alayne's concern for him was most troubling. Clegane had not harmed anyone during his time with the Brotherhood, yet he would not risk Alayne's welfare in any way, especially not when she plainly felt some sympathy for the man. Elder Brother was decided, tomorrow they would return to the Isle.

He heard a noise in the hall. _Good, it's still early enough_. When the door to the room opened he hardened himself for the confrontation ahead.

"Alayne!" He was shocked stone still. The girl's eyes went wide, her mouth hung open, she appeared terrified and about to run. He stepped up to her carefully so as not to frighten her further. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Brother. It's quite cold tonight and I only came to see if you two needed more blankets." There was a single covering in her arms, it appeared worn, faded and filthy; it was clearly not a blanket. And there wasn't a Crone's reason she should be entering this room, at this hour, without a knock.

"Brother Digger is not here," he said, unable to hide the question in his voice. _What is she doing here_?

"Did he leave… for the Isle?" _There is something…_

"Oh, no. When I followed him out this evening, he was headed for town on foot." _Something about her…_?

"Oh. Then I must go," she said quickly stepping away. The hesitancy in her words and the involving look in her eyes worried him greatly. ..._Just out of reach_.

"Go? Go where?" Then the haze of the gods dawn lifted and without thought he reached out desperately and grabbed her arm to stop her. _Holy Mother. No. No_! It was as if he were watching all the pages of a book being bound together in a single moment. The words of her songs filled those pages, as did Digger's own reaction to them, to Nolynn, the Cobbler and even his own words. _She_ was the woman and _the Hound_ was her Rough Husband. "You can't go." _Gods what is she thinking to sing for such a man_!

"He is not safe," she dreadfully pleaded. "If he's recognized… Let go of me!" She had called him _Ser_ and _Lord_; Alayne knew the Hound from before. It was like the child's tale of the Beauty and Beast, though perhaps this time it was the Beast being kept against his will.

"You cannot. Not at this hour." To her headstrong look he said the only thing he could think of to stop her, "I will go and see him safely returned."

"And I will go with you. Do not try to stop me, Elder Brother," she said yanking free from his grip and racing out the door.

*******/*******

_Gods, this is not to be borne_! Elder Brother was full of questions and warning for the girl. He knew he must stop this folly by any means necessary before she was grievously hurt. She had no idea what sort of beast she was trying to tame. As she led him along the darkened path under the trees which paralleled the road, she would not speak a word claiming that she needed to think. He wanted to console her, she looked so fatefully tragic, fighting back tears with her shoulders held high underneath that filthy cloak she'd wrapped so tightly around herself.

"Where should we look?" he asked when they stepped from the trees at the edge of town. "He could be anywhere: At the water's edge, an alley, an inn perchance?" Elder Brother could see strangers up ahead clogging the alleyways and met some relief to see her cover her head.

"I don't think so Brother." He did not like the foretelling nature of her voice. "There is a tavern just there, Port Side Peril, with drink and..."

"You can't go there! It's a…," he could not say the word in front of the girl and thought distantly that the word "peril" might be appropriate for what was come.

"Where do _you_ think he will be, Elder Brother?" she asked pointedly. _Gods, she _was _a willful woman_.

Elder Brother stayed mute trying to collect his thoughts. She likely had the right of it, but he had no wish to find Clegane at all let alone in a house of ill repute. _She can't possibly understand_. "Well, why don't we try here first, it's closest to the Strongsong," he offered.

"No. Luck's Mint is a tavern that serves highborn, knights and those who aspire to be so. If he stopped there, he will not have stayed long." Clearly she knew the man well. "After the Peril, there is another such place we can wait for him. And if not there, we can search the alleys and harbor as you suggested."

Elder Brother had no wish to know how she was so well versed in the turgid affairs of the Saltpans, so he feebly nodded his consent and questioned her resolve no further.

[12.07.14]

* * *

_**A/N**: Another crap song, BUT if you are looking for something good try Wild is the Wind (written by Dimitri Tiomkin and Ned Washington) many versions available; CatPower version works nicely._


	14. Goby Dessert

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Inspired to more action by M'gem.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 14 – Goby Dessert**

**Alayne**

The night's cool air was nipping at her ears as she tried hard to listen to everything around her. Though she held it likely that Sandor would be either at the Peril or the Rosy Bolster, she was not as confident as she let Elder Brother believe. _He __could__ be anywhere_. So she listened for sounds of violence; screams or the clashing of swords, or his wicked drunken laugh, but all she could hear was the ranting and blathering of men foreign to the Pans.

There were more men about than expected at this hour and she had seen only one other woman she did not recognize, leaning beside a doorway in overly friendly conversation. Alayne was grateful to have Elder Brother's protection; it would not have been wise to proceed without him. It was still unwise, Sandor would be very unhappy with her, but she was prepared to see him safely back to the inn.

Thankfully Elder Brother had not questioned her about his Brother, he didn't have to; she saw the unaccustomed scowl on his face and the knit to his brow that said he did not approve. She felt bitter about having to explain to him or anyone how much she loved Sandor and needed him, yet that tartness was overshadowed by the offense of searching out her beloved in the whorehouses of the Saltpans. _This is not how it is supposed to be_, she thought as the chilled air fought to cool the hot anger on her cheeks.

Resentful, she knew she should be in his room now; in the comfort of his arms, drinking in his strength and warming to his dizzyingly desire. A small unseemly smile plucked at her lips thinking of Elder Brother as she walked in to Sandor's room; such shock spread over his face as he realized the sweet modest little barmaid was the Hound's lover. Perhaps she could laugh with the right perspective, _that's what the Hound would do_, but that sort of laugh felt nasty and unknown to her. Bracing her shoulders, Alayne had no doubts that she was strong enough to face both these men and whatever angry words they had for her would be met with her own.

Alayne looked over the façade of the Peril, it was still under construction, missing set windows and the second floor. From her walks with the children along the cliffs of the bay, she knew the back of the building was even more fragmented, just wood framing strung with waxen fabric. Perhaps they should circle it first.

"I can't leave you here, Alayne. I'm sorry, but it's not safe tonight," Elder Brother explained. "Let's just go to the door and ask for assistance." Alayne nodded and dared to move towards the group of men clustered at the wide twin doors, open and inviting.

She stood on point, balanced by a hand on Elder Brother's arm. She felt the heat flooding out of the house while she tried to look over the heads of the men. Where she could see, the interior was not so crowded as it was small; it would have to be she realized, if they were conducting their _business_ downstairs. As she peered discreetly, she saw nothing perverse just several men sloppily drunk and a few women sloppily dressed. Alayne did not understand the allure of such women discordant of dress and charm. And she was unnerved to think that Sandor might be behind those garish red curtains pulled closed at the far end of the bar.

"Hey!" "Hold up old man, you gotta wait 'ere first." "Yeah, wait…" several men spoke at once as Elder Brother pushed his way toward the main entrance.

"I'm not here for…I'm looking for someone," he clarified meeting multiple answers.

"Yeah ain't we all." "Still gotta wait yur turn." "If shhee got pretty teats and a big facesh you'll find 'er," one slurred, fresh laughs followed from all those near.

"I only need speak with the owner. Can one of you point him out?" Alayne stretched taller looking for Lamb, whom she had served at the Strongsong. She was more than a few steps behind the Brother now, but could not see a safe passage through.

"Wat's 'e want t'owner for?" "We said you gotta wait!" "Oy Roms, it's a Brother." "Shut it, Hopper, let 'em…." The men grabbed at Elder Brother as he fought his way forward. She was just about to call out and point to Lamb, when one of the men stepped up to her blocking her view.

"Well ain't you a lovely goby," the bulky bald man said. He was taller than Alayne with brawny arms and sour breath. His wrinkled face seemed squished tiny next to his broad cheeks and massive round head. Alayne looked for Elder Brother only to see his grimy sea-brother turn and take notice.

"Oy, yur late. Ain't nice with all'us waitin 'ere. Ain't it Roms?" His sea-brother was short and gangly, with a long jaw and quick speech that somehow reminded her of Arya.

"Shut it, Hopper," the man said yanking back the cloak that hooded her. "Ah look at that, a _real_ lovely goby. Just in time." Alayne recognized the hungry look in his eyes with true revulsion. She tried to look past Roms for Elder Brother; he had just reached the door's entrance and perhaps would sight Sandor next.

"I don't work here. We need only speak to the owner for a moment then we will be gone," she stated firmly, noting a few other men who looked on curious and intent.

"Gone? Oh no, goby, we don't want you gone. You just got here." _Yeah_, added the horrible little man goading him on while some of the others moved in closer.

Alayne had no choice, "Elder Brother!" she shouted loudly.

Seizing her by the arm Roms said, "You don't need him, goby. We got coin and will take care of you real nice." Hopper added his agreement as Alayne tried to struggle free.

"What you got there?" asked another man grabbing at a tender breast from behind her. Alayne slapped his hand away as another man tugged her cloak open. "Yeah, that's nice." "Eh, she's too skinny for me," another added poking at her hip and ribs.

"What's ya gonna dowit her Roms?" asked Hopper, bouncing on his heels from left to right. "What's yur plan, what's ya gonna do?"

Striking their hands away, Alayne spoke firmly, "Don't! I said I don't work here. Let go, you're hurting me!"

"Hey! You! Let go of her! She's with me." None were listening to him as Elder Brother turned to make his way back to her. "We're just looking for…"

"Pestle, make yourself useful," Roms directed to one man who threw his fist in Elder Brother's gut as he rushed near. "Hands off," Roms said to a man behind her, "you've already gone through once. Don't worry, Brother," he called out, "we'll pay a price for your _sister_ you will agree on; no one else need be wise to it."

Roms then released his grip to reach around her, taking a firm grasp of her cloak he pulled her tightly to him. Alayne let out an 'umph' as she slammed in to his hard leathered chest. "You smell _good_, like an apple pie. Is your slit as sweet, goby? I bet it is." She reached up to fight back, but he caught her arm, yanking it down forcefully as he backed away in to the darkness, with the little man hopping behind.

Alayne kicked and squirmed in fear trying to get loose, but still failing. _Sandor will come_, he would save them, she knew it, and that truth calmed the icy fear that had been tearing through her belly. She only must wait, yet could think of little to do to delay such a big man. Bringing her mouth close to his ear, Alayne readied herself. _Strength, patience, wolf_._ He will come_.

*******/*******

**Elder Brother**

He had not had to raise a hand in violence in over ten years, but he felt the stale familiar pull like an old friend calling him in to action. He yelled out watching in horror as the men closed in on Alayne. The fist in his gut had stolen his breath and doubled him over, but the fury that molted from his holy robed skin had him reaching instinctively to disable his attacker.

_Warrior give me strength_! Grabbing his foe by the balls, Elder Brother yanked hard pulling himself up as the man bellowed in agony. He heard Alayne's scream echo soon after, and he stood tall to find her. He thought he saw her biting down on the man and did see, as well as heard, the solid slap he gave her after yanking her away.

"The old man's gonna fight," someone shouted. Elder Brother dodged a fist on his left, then met a hard return to his face. He returned two quick punches of his own when he heard Alayne feebly cry out '_Sandor_' as she was being hauled away. Though it pricked his warrior pride he could do no less for her. Before one of the bastards had a chance to disabled his jaw, the Brother took a deep full breath and hollered, "Digger! Brother Digger!" loud enough to quiet the crowd and almost level the town.

With a weighty shove and an elbow to his chest, Elder Brother fell to the ground. His head bounced jarringly once on the wood as he saw the feet of the crowd shuffle and part. When the brown-and-dun robe floated by one of his attackers wailed and fell to the floor clutching his leg. Elder Brother watched the other drag him away and two more stepped up to take their place. He managed to get his feet under him and rise, wondering at where the owner was, "Come on then!"

*******/*******

**Digger**

"Shut up!" The first time he heard her voice, _Brother_, he thought it was only pissing his head. Of course it was. It was little bird he wanted; her pretty smells, exquisite skin; not one of the Peril's mangy whores, including the girl in front of him. Even if only a memory, he could not help but listen with half mind. But when he thought he heard her voice again, _Sandor_, he could not ignore it. "Be silent!" he commanded when the girl moved.

And then he heard it a third time; she shrieked one long note of terror and he knew it was her. Like the memory of all her beatings he would never forget being so engulfed by helplessness at those sounds. This sound dug through the self-pity and the mountainous rations of wine, trying to force his mind clear and decisive. He rose unsheathing the dagger to hear another call, _Digger_! _Brother Digger_! And he ran.

He burst through the smoke stained curtains and managed to throw a man aside before plowing in to him with his drunken gait. When tripping through the door he saw Elder Brother downed; one foe cajoling and the other kicking viciously at his back. _Fucking cowards_! He had no time to stop and therefore thrust his dagger in a quick piercing stab to kicker's leg to slow him down.

On the road he realized it made no sense drunk or sober, but under his laboring breath he knew she was here and in danger. Looking left he saw nothing, nor to his right. He heard a high yip ahead on the opposing side of the main road and saw two men in the dark, skirts billowing around the big one's leg. Though he couldn't see Sansa, he ran full out across the main. Staggering and tripping again he forced himself to slow. It would do no good to fall blindly on his own knife or to kill them on the main, he needed the seclusion of a dark alley to finish this, the one in which they were now headed.

"Roms, I hear'd somethin'. Think someone's comin'. Could be the Brother."

"Naw, he's busy. It's that greedy fucking Pestle, you tell him to wait his turn."

"Stop this! Right now." He heard the sounds of her desperate struggle. _Fuck, it is her_, he confirmed under the dizzy haze of drink and rage. Pressing in to the shadows alongside the burned out store front he listened. _What the hell is she doing here_!

"Never much liked proud whores. You speak again, goby, and I'll tear out your pretty throat."

"Do it Roms." _Not bloody likely_. Sandor stepped as quietly as he could around the corner to see that even as thoroughly drunk as he was this would be too easy. The fat bastard wore boiled leather, but cheap shit that idiots wore for show. It covered the front and probably looked real pretty, but there was only fancy leather lacing at the back. _What a cunt_.

"The girl's no whore," he said taking the last two steps to come up behind him. His knife slid easily in to the man's rib cage. So he plunged it in sharply again when the fat man reared back, then he dropped like a stone while Sansa fell away.

"Roms?" said his puny mate. Looking to Sandor, "What 'ave ya done? Who the hell are you to do that?" Sandor instantly reached out for his skinny neck, missing as Puny hopped back, getting hold of his collar instead, _good enough_, and raising him high against the wall.

"I'm her rough _husband_. And you're dead," he said with a malicious laugh and drove the dagger in to his bowels. Sandor covered the man's mouth when he started to keen and cry. The man bit down painfully hard on his left hand drawing blood and he gave him a sharp crack on the head with the hilt. Still holding him upright, Sandor wiped the blood off his knife and hand on Puny's shirt before letting him mutely drop to join his friend.

Sansa stood and lunged for him, boring her face in to his chest and wrapping her arms solidly around his middle. "You saved us! I knew you would." The light wind in the alley fanned her hair softly and her womanly scent pulsed within him. His steely cock stood tall begging favor for his efforts. He wanted to take her against that wall as Puny still twitched. Instead he kissed the top of her head and hugged her closely, holding his right hand out to keep the blood from her cloak. "I'm sorry. Are you alright, my love?"

Gods it felt glorious, killing stupid bastards who upset his little bird. He disjointedly thought that perhaps he needn't worry if he _could_ protect her when doing so gave him so much fortitude and pleasure. "Never better. You?" She looked up at him so lovingly like he was the only man alive. She _was_ his, always had been. Understanding now that she had meant every silly word she sang in his arms, he resolved not to run from her again.

"Boros slapped harder than that on his kind days," Sandor laughed again. She _was_ stronger to make a jape at her beatings, and he loved her for it. "Oh, dear. I forgot Elder Brother. We must find him!"

"Yes, come on. He may be dead; I left him to fight the rest."

When they approached the Peril there were no signs of any disturbance nor the crowd that had been at the door. The adrenaline was wearing off and he felt hungry and dizzy as he staggered across the road. Elder Brother was leaning wearily against the outer wall with blood on his face and hands. "Are you alright, Elder Brother?" She asked rushing to help him.

"I'm so sorry, Alayne. I didn't think…"

"No you didn't!" growled Sandor. "What the hell you doing bringing her here?"

Little bird spun around in fury. "He did not! I tried to come on my own to see you safe. And he came to protect me! We wouldn't be here if you had not left as you did. I was out of my mind with worry." Her anger was jarring and much too loud. _This is my fault_.

"Fine work he did," he added harshly. "You two have no business here. You were both almost killed! And I don't need no damn nursemaids."

"Alayne, please. Brother Digger is safe. We should not have come. Let's go back to…" But before he could finish they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps and a call.

"Brother? There you are! You forgot your… Oh." The girl's bouncy movements stopped short when she came through the door to see Alayne and Elder Brother both wide eyed and questioning. She was holding Sandor's belted pouch, two wineskins and his boots. He looked down in confusion staring at his bare feet; he didn't even remember taking them off. He looked up to see little bird staring down at his feet as well. Then she slowly raised her gaze to the whore, with that masked dull broken look that pained him so. He could see the tremble in the hand that smoothed at her skirt and knew the bird was not happy.

"What the hell happened?" When no one answered the whore continued, "Come in, I will see to that hand and your friend."

"No," Alayne barked before softening it, "Thank you. I will see to them. We must be going."

_Aw, fucking hell_! He grabbed for one of the wineskins and drank deeply.

[12.07.20]


	15. Dead Man Walking

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Heaps of thanks for the reviews and PMs; thought I may lose more than a few with the betrayal storyline.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 15 – Dead Man Walking**

**Elder Brother**

_We must be going_. There were traces of blood on her mouth, but Alayne was unhurt, _thank the gods_, and unhappy. Peering through his swollen lid he saw outwardly she wore the same calm polite demeanor she always did, but her eyes were distant and insincere. He would heal soon enough, his aching body expressed sorely that the Brothers needed fresh training. Old stale soldiers such as himself would not be enough if any real trouble came to the Quiet Isle and there were too many strangers flooding in from the North.

Clegane was right, they had no business here and hopefully Alayne recognized she had no business with him. He still could not conceive of how Clegane had won such a woman. Any good in the man had been drowned beyond recognition in his current state; _some rumors are true_, but he did recognize there was something the man cared deeply for, Alayne. His initial thought was that he did not deserve her, but now he had to admit she was none of what she seemed. It was impossible to believe that once Alayne was no different than the redhead before them. But like the falseness that spread so comfortably upon her face, it was all a lie, and it broke something inside him to see that pure finery shattered.

"As you wish. Here," the whore thrust Clegane's belongings at him as Elder Brother struggled without help to stand. The man was too steeped in wine and anger to accept them so Alayne reached out instead. He looked for any signs of shame in him, finding none and felt pity and anger for them both.

"Thank you, for your kindness," Alayne managed but the words nearly stuck in her throat. _Sticky like pitch and dman messy_. It had been a mistake to try and help her; perhaps he should have taken her straight to Baedon.

The whore nodded once then cocked her head awkwardly. "Wait! I know you. You sing at the…" before she could finish Clegane reached for her throat, covering half her face and choking off further comment.

"You know nothing, girl! You hear me? You speak a word about any of it and you'll have my dagger…" Elder Brother pushed painfully from the building to stop him.

"Stop it. Stop! Take your hand off her! You're scaring her and you're scaring me." He was too exhausted to intervene, and watched Alayne take the Hound in hand._ None of what she seems_.

"I _mean_ to scare her," he snarled obeying nonetheless with a poisonous look.

"She will say nothing. Even if she does her life is worth more than any punishment I might receive. So you _will_ stop. And put your boots on," she countered with a glare. "I'm very sorry," she added sincerely to the whore.

"I'll not say anything," the girl added willfully. Clegane was digging craggily in his pouch having knocked his boots to the ground. "I don't need more coin. Just go." He could not agree more, reaching for the other wineskin; they needed to get out of this ruined town before more trouble found them.

He blindly followed as they crossed the main. Elder Brother noticed Alayne stiffen in discomfort. She shied away from an alley on approach and he knew the men who had taken her were lying there dead. He wondered how many bodies were in that alley, to be thrown surreptitiously in to the bay. The locals would manage without care and the captains wouldn't make issue; outsiders disappeared in the Saltpans all the time. When he stretched his neck glancing in to the darkness he met a sour challenging look from Clegane. _Shove it up your arse_, he thought crossly, he knew better than to say anything too.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

"Here," little bird finally spoke, leading them towards the trees. _What the hell_? He finally saw the path that followed the road. _Humh, smart_. The angry battered group made their way along the path; Sandor muddled through, tripping over rocks and roots. The sparse moonlight that darted under the trees was bleeding little help; it seemed only to color the forest unnatural. He tossed aside the empty wineskin seeking the other; he was sure there were two. That whore probably took it. _Damn her_, things were fine, almost settled even, before she showed. He didn't give a piss about the coin or the boots, only his little bird who refused to look at him now. _Just take her away_!_ Bloody should have already_. She saw what he was capable of; she must know it would be pointless to fight him tonight.

"That was the first real drink I've had since the Trident," he tried, but it was no good. He even saw her swipe at a tear before it fell away, but she made no sound. "It's too dark," he grumbled to the night. "I didn't need no fucking nursemaid."

"We simply wanted to see you safe," Elder Brother responded sullenly.

_Humph_. "A _true_ knight." _Do-gooding bastard_. "I have to piss," he added, going off the path to a near tree. He sighed in relief at the stop. He was tired and much too drunk. He attempted to stand straight, but his legs were wooden and his shoulders were pulling him to the ground. _Gods why did she come_? _That's what she does, humiliate me_. And he was sick of it. And her fucking songs. _That's what started this_: _You're mine love_. _Bugger the wind_! "Go on," he said feeling ashamed and rejected. "I'll sleep here." Leaning against the tree Sandor started to inch down and sit.

"No! Don't! Stop him Brother. You've just sat in your own filth." _She's tweeting now_, he chuckled.

"No matter, I am filth. We get along nicely," laughing sorely at his own humor.

"Please come, it's late. You need sleep." _So polite_, he couldn't stand her civility as they pulled him to his feet. Small as she was, she had enough height to fit nicely under his arm; _…so soft and so delicate_. She navigated him quite well, probably had lots of practice with drunken lechers working at that bar.

"What the hell you wearing? That my cloak?" It didn't seem right, but it was he noted as she pulled the faded filthy thing protectively around herself. _Ughsh_. "Wait," he roughly coughed as he staggered aside to spew forth the wine rising from his gut. "More filth," he laughed.

"Don't step in it!" Elder Brother grabbed hold of his robe and pulled him back. When he looked for little bird she was more than a few steps being retching in to the trees herself.

"Sorry." But little bird was silent again, seemingly too irritated to speak. _Is this a punishment or a favor_? Her flowering fruit scent made its way through his stench, waking his nerves. It filled him with memories of her gentle touch and of his intimate victory; _none had ever been half so sweet_. His body refused to move forward and he just stood, swaying and staring at her. _Gods she's beautiful_. And once again he felt submerged in his seventh hell, no more than a Whitewalker. No matter her intention, this is what she had made him, a dead man walking; hurting her more than she deserved and more than he would be able to swallow in the morning.

Sansa moved on ahead, leaving him to Elder Brother. "Are you finished?"

"Not entirely." He took a couple more steps off the path and retched again. This time it wasn't so funny seeing his bird struggle not to do the same. She watched him with a blank almost courteous face, _why punish me pretty bird_? But he could see underneath; no one knew her like he did. _Made for my hands alone_, he blinked at the sting at his eyes. _Not meant for a dog_, and he mustn't blame her for that. There'd be no begging, just crawling, back to that fucking inn. _Should have put those boots on_. He could grieve later when his mind was clear enough to sift through the charred bits that remained.

*******/*******

**Alayne**

_Seven more steps_, she mutely said. _Then a breath_, _then seven more steps_… It was a common chant that had carried her through the worst days in Kings Landing. It kept her from shrieking like a madwoman or ripping Joffrey's wormy lips from his face. Counting to seven would calm her mind, eventually.

She watched his intemperance closely as they slowly made their way back to the inn. _He is disgusting like this_. She had called him her rough husband, and tonight he echoed the words, but she never meant this. Sandor looked pathetic and even though he hated pity, he was pitiful and she vowed to remember it. Elder Brother looked shocked to see her boldly watching him piss on that tree, but she was beyond caring. _Piss on them both_.

She knew men took whores, even men who loved their family and their wives. Yet she internally fought at the stirrings of jealousy and a vague need for revenge; that woman threatened all that she had left now. _I don't need more coin_. She placed a shaky hand on her brow, trying to press the horrible memory away. She considered her own father who had sired a bastard so soon after his marriage, she never knew why. She had watched as her lady mother suffered it for years and she was forever sorry for her dishonor. But to think of it grown, after taking a bastards name herself, she knew it was the child that would suffer most, _Jon_.

Out of deference to her mother, she had never accepted Jon as fully as her siblings had. While the others were out tramping and playing, Sansa would stay with her mother learning the harp, refining her poetry and courtly manners as all Tully women did. Her mother had borne the betrayal, but never seemed to forget; and it hurt her brother Jon most of all. _Her half-brother_. He was not to blame.

Jon was always such a sweet boy, looking to Catelyn for any sign of approval. When Sansa did join the others at play she was always the one behind: the last over the hill, the 'final fish in the pond', the horse forever in the rear. And it was always Jon who waited to see her safe or catch her up. While he kept a good distance in regard to her, he never took his eyes off or left her with the other boys, like Theon or Mikken's son, who liked to tease her unkindly. She wished Jon was here to see her safe now.

More than anything she felt stupid again; recalling half-imagined conversations where Sandor told her loved her. She did wonder if she could forgive the disloyalty; yet if she was to love him, she must. _I've done nothing wrong_! She _had_ done nothing wrong, she was certain of it. But she had often been overconfident, believing herself strong or privileged, _empty-headed bird for true_. And yet... Had she ever prayed for him to love her? _No_. She had taken for granted that with all her charms he simply would. But those women at the Peril were unreservedly without charm and men flocked to them every night.

She wondered how many bastards Sandor had sired. How many lovers had he taken no more important than she? The weight of the questions was devastating. She pressed at her head thinking she might heave again and tried to keep her quivering breath shallow so the men would not hear the sorrow crushing her. They were over halfway to the inn; she needed to be strong just a bit longer, _seven more steps_. _I am a Stark, damn him!_

As if reading her thoughts Sandor spoke, "Will we speak or will you just torture me?"

"Why?" she whispered, moving her hand to guard her heart. Sansa did not want to know why he would hurt her, but it was all that came. Her heart beat unevenly and she turned away to hide her grief, swiping at her eyes. She didn't want to cry, not until she got to her room, then she could weep for weeks if need be.

"Why?" he growled annoyed. "You're the one playing at cunt-games since I arrived in this buggering town! Gods your _father_ taught you well."

"Digger no! I will not allow you to speak to Alayne that way," Elder Brother interrupted. Sansa took a deep breath and thought of Eddard Stark: _fierce, generous and true_.

"_Alayne_." He said caustically and then spat something nasty on the ground.

"It's alright Elder Brother, let him speak as he wishes. He does not frighten me." She steadied, thinking it might be freeing to speak so boldly. "I know what you did to that h-whore," her throat hitched as she gulped for air. "But you may tell it if you must," she conceded, throwing his own words back at him.

"What I did! Gods you're a stupid bird! Men pay whores for what _they_ can do." There was nothing uglier he could have said. She pressed her lips together to control the trembling of her chin. She had known nothing when she came so brazenly in to his room, and he had laughed at her innocence. "A dog does what he must."

"No!" she shouted stomping her foot. "You said a hound would never betray you," then her own voice cracked in betrayal. She _had_ been warned and well should have known. That whore was to be her death blow, the thing behind her that she never saw coming. She no longer felt like herself, but knew she must remember it all as equally as their first night together, and their second – not just the killing or all that hate in his heart, but the true foulness that he was capable of, even when it meant hurting her.

"Why her?" she asked as tears swelled, promising to fall.

"Why what? The girl's nothing. There's no need to be _upset_ or... Gods woman!"

_Nothing_! "Nothing! How dare you lie to me!" And her wolf bounded upon her.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

He'd never seen her like this. Her fists were balled up in her skirts as she stomped her tiny foot, and her movements jerked gracelessly. Gods he'd never seen her more lovely or more fierce. His words had been unfair, but she took beatings easier than this. _The woman is jealous_! He'd witnessed that hot red fury before, but not once did he think to see it directed at him. He laughed out loud it felt so bloody good.

"Nothing? She had… Straight. Red. Hair!" Her voice was hoarse and cracking, stopping him short. _Damn, she has me there_. "I have done nothing wrong. I waited for you, believed in you..," she convulsed in a lowly tone and his heart broke to see the fight leaving her with each agitated pant. "How could you touch her?" Tears and huge choking sobs overtook her, preventing her from saying more. And Sandor was well and truly thankful.

"I didn't," he replied feebly. He was unsure how to do right by her now. He wanted to pick the fluttering little thing up, put her back in her cage and tell her all would be right by morning.

"You didn't?" she cheeped. Her tear stained face looked up at him with disbelief and such wretched hope.

"Not much, didn't get a chance to, did I? With you two hollering." The words were pissing out of his mouth before he could stop them. Oh he hated liars, but the desolate moan that escaped her made him wish he would have lied.

Little bird launched herself at him, arms flailing in attack. "How could you?" she screeched and he lifted his chin, letting her thrash at him. "You want to fill yourself with drink and whores? What of me? Our children? How can you be so damn awful?"

"Alayne, stop," Elder Brother tried. "Digger you must stop this. I will not let you hurt her."

"Leave it!" he barked at him. When she started digging her nails in to the bite on his hand, he shoved her arms down and hugged her tightly. "Oh, little bird," he whispered softly, but he wanted to howl too. He wanted to kiss those lips salted with tears, to tell her he would give her all she wanted, even if it _was_ too much.

*******/*******

**Alayne**

Her struggle fell away when his dark warmth wrapped around her. He smelled horrid, but she held on steadfast fearing her knees might give way. _Little bird_. "You think there is right and wrong? Look at where you are at, girl." He was right, there was mostly wrong in the world, which was why she clung to him for truth. When she caught sight of Elder Brother his gaze was profound with pity. She was afraid to look at Sandor and see the same. Her behavior was shameful. _Our ways are the old ways_, she forcefully reminded.

"To think I will not be at your side, that I will never see your face again…" except the tears came again. She tried to press away, but he would not let her go entirely. She looked in to his eyes to hear the final words, "Can you not give me your heart just a little?" He regarded her silently, his gray stare full of bleary anguish. "Then just say it," she dared. "If your command is to torture me, _ser_, do not prolong it. Tell me I am no longer yours; that I am no more than a whore to you."

"Are you trying to kill me, girl?"

"No. I am trying to love you."

"Stupid bird." Perhaps he was right, but they had too much to lose and she searched for any argument that might prevail. "Damn it, woman! I will continue to hurt you or kill you, don't you understand?" Sansa pushed back, looking directly in to his eyes with conviction.

"Oh, darling, I know it well. Am I so very selfish for wanting one thing for myself? You and I are not wrong. We are more than duty, honor or tournament games." His eyes closed at her words and their misery panged sightless and voiceless. "Look at me!" she ordered. "You may have me now and one day we _will_ be happy. Or you may find me later, when I am sold to another and all that is left is hate and regret. I do not want be without you Sandor, no matter the cost."

"Then you are a fool, woman!"

"But, I forgive you, Sandor."

*******/*******

**Sandor**

And finally, there it was, what he had been waiting for: the lie. It was as clear as her beauty or the Tully blue in her eyes. "You're lying," he said softly, releasing his grip on her shoulders.

"I'm trying. If you would but tell me what is wrong and let me mend it. Why will you not say you love me, Sandor? Why must you retreat and make everything ugly when all I want is to love you proper," again she wept.

The little bird saw everything even that which he hid from himself. _If I had anything at all I would give it to you_, he thought. She had reached deep in to his core and turned his wishes in to fears, or maybe his fears in to wishes, he was too drunk to know; and like her songs, it was too much. "Then there is only one kindness I can give you –" _my Lady_, "I will not come again."

Without warning, she backhanded him unevenly across his right cheek. He'd seen her shoulder move, but not the rest. His head snapped left as the sting worked at clearing his mind. Looking back, she appeared as surprised as he was and he thought there was an apology forming on her lips. He could not stop the smile from twitching at his mouth. "Don't! If _you_ are to be a coward, you will not blame me for it!" His smile froze. "If you wish to give me a _gift_, my love, you may do me one kindness."

Her voice was thick and he dreaded the request as much as the reminder of her stolen virtue. "Anything, little bird."

She took a step and stood tall on her toes, softly leaning in to kiss him and he freely bent to her will. But it was not a kiss, before their lips met she turned to his left and sweetly said, "You will think on all that I have said this night, _and _our last." _Bugger me_! "And know this, my father did teach me well; I have his sigil and his steel within me. I have your strength now too. It is _you_ who are the fool if you think I will not fight for what is mine." She shoved him off balance and to the ground; then flew swiftly away with his cloak flapping behind her.

The lady had bested him with her words again, sharper and more commanding than Valarian steel. She had thrown down challenge by calling him a coward, and even drunk he could not deny she had proven herself: _Do you not see that I am stronger and smarter now_? She had told him something tonight, many things in fact, and he hoped the weight of her words would sink in more clearly by morning.

"Gods have mercy. You are both fools to be pitied and prayed for," Elder Brother spoke; he forgot he was there. "Not seven men who have ever lived have known such devotion. As sticky as _pitch_, I fear."

"Devotion? She nearly beheaded me."

"We leave at first light tomorrow. It will do her no good for Baedon to see us in this state, especially if Alayne has bruises of her own." He was right, but Sandor was not ready to leave his little bird behind.

[12.07.23]


	16. He's Watching

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews. You've made me think about my view of the characters, GRRMs world and the final few chapters. I appreciate it!  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 16 – He's Watching**

**Baedon **

Baedon was reviewing his ledgers and feeling quite pleased with himself as the few remaining guests warmed near the hearth before taking leave. It was a dull morning, but the previous moon had been so demanding that all debts had been cleared and soon he would head to town for supplies and fresh news of the war. The ships had started to sail again, which all agreed was a blessing; the outsiders always brought trouble to the Saltpans along with their business. According to the washer woman, the Quiet Isle had a flood of strangers as well, which is why Elder Brother had shortened his visit three weeks earlier. _Wildlings even_; it was hard to imagine, he had never seen free folk in the South.

Alayne was behaving poorly again he noted as she readied the main hall for the midday meal. He had worried for some time that she'd caught an ague from one of the merchant ships, and that it might take her as it did Evange. If what Mary said was true, however, Alayne wouldn't get a chance to die slowly by sickness, it was likely that Baedon would kill her quick himself.

He had kept a keen eye on Alayne since he saw that mark on her face and followed her close as she passed in to the kitchen. He wasn't ready to believe the worst yet. She had been nothing but help at the inn and since Petyr had seen so fully to her educated, his children had profited daily from her attentions. _She too has been a blessing, but that was no fall_, he thought as he heard the blatant clatter of dishes on the sidepiece.

Baedon stepped forward to see Alayne's tall figure rush out the scullery door. When he caught Mary's eye she gave him a look, one he often received when the children needed scolding. It was true, he had been avoiding the confrontation unsure he could control his temper, but it was time. Putting away the ledger, Baedon followed her out in to the yard.

Walking between the alehouse and the stable, Alayne came quickly around the left corner and bounded straight in to him. "Oh, I am sorry uncle." She did look sorry, and Baedon almost felt sorry for her. Alayne had a way about her that drew folk in. When she was happy and smiling upon you, you were happy, and when she was lowly the need to help her was just as contagious. He hoped Mary was wrong and he could find a way to help her now.

"Where have you been?" Alayne looked startled at the question, then to her shoes as she ran a hand down to smooth over her skirts.

"I had to use the privy." Baedon waited for her to lift her head and meet his eyes. There were two privies, both he'd built himself, and both were on the right behind the stable.

"You're unwell again," he stated, watching close for further deception.

"No," but he saw her hand halt before raising it to her mouth. "I was unwell, but I am fine now. It's the fish of late. It is not agreeable to me."

_Maiden help you if you're lying_. He looked down the length of her, seeing no signs of her offense. He did detect some falseness, but could not exact its nature. Anger started to creep forward at the possibility and overshadow his good will for the girl. "I want the truth, Alayne." The silence that followed bespoke a lie and his fists clenched at the surprise. "Mary says that you are with child."

Alayne startled looking shocked; he could not tell if it was by the discovery or the accusation, "She is mistaken, uncle," but in instinct he reacted. _No, I was mistaken to ever doubt my wife_. He rounded on her in two vigorous steps and Alayne cowered back towards the stable wall.

"Do you understand what you have done? The risk we took allowing you to come here? Why I fought to keep the men away!" _She couldn't_. He could not believe that she would willingly put his family in danger; not his children who loved her so dearly.

"Uncle, I assure you…" she said evenly.

"Do you?" he shouted. "Petyr _will_ kill me when he finds out. And if he discovers that I hid such a thing from him, he _will _kill my family." Alayne stared, blinking and frightened. Petyr would do it, not by his own hand of course, but he would see it done. He did not know why the girl was important to Petyr, only that she was.

"You are mistaken, uncle."

"No more lies!" She looked away from his warning and he detected guilt in those eyes. "Who is the father?" Mary suspected Reg was the one to have charmed her. But if the bruise had anything to do with it, it wasn't Reg. That simpering recreant had never fought for anything in his life. Moreover Baedon wanted to believe that she had been wronged, unwilling and not fully responsible. Yet when Alayne glared back at him with her lips pressed in a firm line, he saw he was the one wronged.

Losing control, Baedon grabbed both of her shoulders and shoved her in to the stable wall. "You think I won't find out who he is?" She faced him boldly and direct, and he saw her own anger flare at his assault. "Does he know? About the child? Does anyone know?"

"No," she replied, her voice penetrating with regret.

Alayne's head pitched left distracted and he followed hearing distant voices. "Never mind that," he said grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. "You will tell no one of this! Do you understand? _All_ of our lives depend upon it. And you _will_ get rid of that child. Or, gods help you, I will see to it myself." He seethed as Alayne shook her chin loose and braced her shoulders. She rose to her full height to look down on him with contempt.

_How dare she_! "You think you can defy me?" _Cannot kill her now_. "Try it! And your father will receive a sad little letter about your unfortunate accident." Even at his threat she did not speak or back down. "I see you are more than you pretend," he spoke low and dark. "You know, I never thought you were Petyr's get. Seems I was mistaken."

"Marc?" Baedon's head snapped right to see Mary leading someone in to the shadowy mouth of the passage.

"Yes, Mary," he replied releasing Alayne and stepping towards his wife as Elder Brother came in to view. Baedon struggled to bury his outrage and bring forth a smile for their guest.

"Is everything alright?" asked Elder Brother.

"Yes, Elder Brother," Alayne replied easily. "You look well. It is nice to see you again so soon. Master Baedon was just explaining about a mistake I made. I will see to it _immediately_." Her last words were said directly to him, sounding of nothing more than a kindly gratitude for the counsel. _Oh, she's Petyr's by rights_.

"Elder Brother, you surprise us. Is everything alright at the Isle?"

"We had some trouble with the new arrivals. We lost some of our stores and I will need to make a few trips to replenish them," he responded comfortably. _Mayhap he saw nothing_.

"Was it the Wildlings?" Baedon inquired.

"He said it was, together with some of the Northmen. This war..," Mary was shaking her head astonished. To Alayne, "Which is why, I think, Elder Brother has asked if you will show him the weirwood and tell him what you know of the old gods."

"I was raised in the Seven, Brother. I would not be much help," Baedon was pleased to hear her dismissal.

"I will be thankful for anything you can tell me. Brother Pull will see to the rooms. Mayhap we could go now?" he asked looking both to him and Mary.

"Go on, Alayne, we'll manage. And Baedon, you need to see to your business in town." Mary was giving him another look, one also familiar that said his judgment was not to be trusted. He did not like leaving Alayne in Elder Brother's company. However, she seemed to have gotten his message and agreed to settle it. Mary was right, there was no more to be done for now.

*******/*******

**Alayne**

Alayne had fought the heaving sickness that plagued all new mothers for almost two moons. She had been successful at hiding her discomfort until the cook started serving that revolting fish. She had no idea what it was, but found she could not tolerate the smell because it reminded her of Roms, _and that night_. Alayne had found she was tired, aching in body and mind, and suffering irregular hungers for some time. At first she thought it only heartsickness, but when her moons blood did not come she started to hope heartsick was all of it.

It was too soon. She had not meant for it to happen; Jon was to be a future happiness not an impending doom after that wretched evening in the Saltpans. She knew what kind of man Sandor was, she had even been right about where to find him, but she had believed him changed. The pain of seeing her mistake was distressing, the betrayal more odious than any she suffered at Kings Landing. Worst of all Sandor had caused her to doubt; not only him but herself and it would not do.

She had thought of the heart-tree's vision as a promise, and fought to explain why the gods would test her so cruelly. But if she was to have such providence and do right by the child, her encounter had told that she would need to be confident and capable on her own. Whether Sandor would come back, if he would try to make amends, it was a secondary worry compared to Jon. She was not willing to give up her child even if it meant her life. She needed time to find a proper course; time that Mary had just stolen from her.

Leading Elder Brother up the steep hillside she wondered if he presented some new hope. _There is no time, and he did not come_. She had continued to visit the heart-tree to pray for guidance, listening for any sign of what she should do next, but all she heard was: _He's watching_. Baedon had been watching her closely for some time now. She did not know if he was following her to the wood or if he sent one of the boys, but she had been careful, _not careful enough_.

"Alayne," Elder Brother started.

"Wait. He's watching," she repeated the tree's murmur in a whisper. _Does he not hear it_? "Here is the heart-tree," she began more loudly. "It has not been well attended for some time, but I believe it is still strong."

"I hear no one," he whispered back, glancing side to side. "I have always found these trees uninviting, the color, the faces…"

"Many do, but look here." Alayne turned around to face the view of the bay. "You cannot deny this beauty. This is a peaceful place to pray to the old gods or the new. Feel the wind, Brother?" Alayne tilted her head back and let the gusting wind wash over her and the eddy of more pleasing thoughts.

"Then we shall pray now," Elder Brother said, kneeling down and offering her his hands as she joined him. "Are you alright, Alayne?"

"Yes, Brother," she replied just as softly.

"Alayne," he tried again. "What will you do about the child?"

Alayne could not stop the shocked intake of breath, but managed to keep her head down and not meet the eyes she felt boring in to her. "You were listening? You heard Baedon?" she asked accusingly.

"No. I heard you. You said you had your father's strength inside you and Sandor's as well. I wondered at your meaning and when I saw Baedon so angry, threatening you… I guessed as much." She waited but Elder Brother waited as well. _I must ask_.

"You said women often pass through the Quiet Isle. Is this why they come?"

"Many, yes." He stayed silent for some time. "I will help you Alayne." Again she waited, but now with some relief. She did not know if this was the proper course, but it was an option. "Does he know?"

"No. I did not get the chance on your last visit." She had meant to tell Sandor the following day. If he was to be a coward the child would surely have him retreat once and for all; and settled she could then face her future without him.

"Have you not seen him?"

"No. Why?" Confused, "You said there was trouble at the Isle. What of Brother Digger? Was he hurt?"

"No, nothing like that. They just wanted food for their journey and he wasn't there. Brother Digger travelled with me to the Isle. We spent the first night on the road where we always do. Since the winter weather washed out the ferry crossing, it's been a great inconvenience. We've had t…"

"Elder Brother, please!"

"Oh, of course. Well, he saw me safely to the Isle. Then he collected his things and saddled Driftwood. His horse.., Stranger. He took food from the kitchen as well and left shortly after. He said that he need speak with you. And that he'd been a fool and would never leave you again."

Alayne started to panic at the thought, "I have not seen…" _He's watching_, the leaves intoned again. "Do you not hear it?"

"I told you," he whispered, "I hear no one near." _Mayhap because he does not believe_. Alayne looked frantically around, then let go of Elder Brother's hands and started to rise.

"Alayne, wait," he commanded, reaching out to take hold of her arm and pull her to him. Alayne struggled to get free, and heard a voice behind her.

"Let go of her," he growled.

Sandor immerged from the dense copse and walked out on to the plateau. His robes were unevenly worn and she could see the stains on his breeches. He beard was growing on the unscarred side of his face and his hair was in disarray. He looked like something out of one of Old Nan's stories; a Wildling or one of the first men. His eyes were wild and all appearance feral as he slowly advanced towards them.

Sansa took a step nearer and waited. _Patience. Strength. Wolf_, the leaves murmured and Sansa felt the power of all Starks dance through her; as if her family was gathering near and would see her right. It was the odd sort of comfort, the kind that could only be found in the Winterfell crypt on a mournful day. _Our ways are the old ways_, she thought. _Now we will settle it_.

"Alayne, don't!" Elder Brother cried moving between her and Sandor, "It is not safe."

"Do not worry yourself, Elder Brother. We are alright. Let him speak."

[12.07.29]


	17. Savage Truth

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Thanks for the nudges and sorry for the delay. Never meant to break the last chapter with this, but I have a messy Hound to unravel.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 17 – Savage Truth**

**Elder Brother**

_Alayne, don't_! He'd seen that knife's-edge look in Clegane's eyes before and recognized they were not safe. To say he was out of sorts or not himself did no justice to the depravity now before them. By decree he should leave Alayne to the will of the gods, but faith's devoted Brother was too terrified for her to let her face this starved dog alone. One harsh word or, _gods help her_, another slap, and they would both be found dead upon that majestic windswept hill.

Clegane looked like a savage, far worse than any Wildling he had dealt with at the Isle. But Alayne just stood there facing that hulking dark shape, waiting patiently and still seemingly unaware of the sort of beast she was willing to tie herself to. She took another slow step and when Clegane did not speak she started for him.

"Why did you not come to me sooner? At least to let me bring you some food?" It was a good start; careful and controlled and far better than he expected after Clegane's offenses. Yet Elder Brother found he was not surprised by the woman's charity, given the goodness she managed to maintain within her.

"I… I..," the words stuck in his throat. Elder Brother waited breathlessly, realizing the man had probably not spoken a word in near a moons turn.

"You are sorry?" She helped and the desperate hope in her voice tugged sorrowfully at him.

Clegane shook his head as if saying, _No_. Her expression went distant and blank, and she lowered her head to examine the rocky soil under her feet. "Wait," he demanded harshly, and she waited.

It took him a few good long counts before he managed. "I love you, little bird," he croaked, "I'm sure of it." He didn't sound sure, the stoic words sounded rough and inflamed, burning though his chest for escape. They came out slow as if his will had to be reinforced before each articulation. When Elder Brother glanced to Alayne, he saw she had raised only her eyes, looking near as stunned as he was by such a beginning. "I don't know a damn thing about it or the happiness you spoke of. But you're all I want, little bird. Since the first time I dared speak with you on the Kings Road. You remember it?"

"Yes. I was with Lady," Elder Brother watched the tender smile that came with the memory. He thought he should look away, but did not trust the man or the two of them together.

"Yes. More frightened of the headsman than me I think." Her eyes were wide on his as she nodded. "And when I touched you, in your soft way I felt you come to me even then. Until you turned and saw my face."

"I never meant…" With a snort, Clegane's face twitched in to a gloomy grin.

"I know. It's no matter." Promptly becoming more austere, "You _are_ mine, little bird. But I've got nothing worthy or pretty to offer you. All I've done is fail you, and I bloody never wanted that! No different than the k- cruel idiot who had you beaten. Gods I should have taken you then!"

"You tried," she said. "I didn't always understand, but I know you tried." It was wrong to be intruding upon this confession; wrong to hear such intolerable things, but Elder Brother found he could not turn away. He wanted to understand their connection. Needed it, like needing to understand all the blessed aspects of grace in order to fully grasp the moral teachings of the Seven.

"Not hard enough. Never fucking hard enough. I won't leave you again; shouldn't have done that first night, or the last. Should have never gone to the Per…" Alayne raised her hand quickly to stop him. Relieved, Elder Brother exhaled haphazardly, he could not bear to relive it either. Still she waited silently as did he, hoping that Clegane would not say something contemptible.

"Little bird, please. I wanted you before, but it's nothing to when I saw you at the Strongsong. Since that night, it's as you said; I have been craven and awful. And I am damn sorry for it. But you must come away with me. You're not safe with them. I will do as you ask. Take you where you need go, as your shield, and I'll ask no more. I swear it."

"You swear it?" she confirmed.

"With my life. I am a ruin, but I am your dog. I promise to see to your situation and to keep you safe. I can do that."

"Oh Sandor, I do not want a dog." She sounded truly disappointed, while Elder Brother held quietly on to his comfort. "What I want is for you to swear that you will not dishonor me again." As she looked to him Clegane held her gaze, boldly exposing his shame.

"I was wrong," he said, his voice dejected and cavernous. Alayne glanced towards Elder Brother and mutely said it was time for him to leave.

"Listen to me, Sandor. When my husband preferred drink and to lie with other women, I was glad of it because there was no love between us." _Husband_?

_Dear gods_, Clegane looked solemnly to him as well. When he recalled the virtuous woman he once knew, it was like a cold stone in his heart to see the small truths of her life. But to think she may have been the wife of a brothel owner, who worked her and beat her to the point that she put her faith in a man like Clegane was despicable. His eyes started to sting in a way he had not sensed in years. _She has the strength of the Warrior_, he thought. _If she will not cry_, _I will cry for her_. Walking away toward the edge of the wood Elder Brother thought of the prayer for Father's justice, but then chose to make his bid to the Stranger instead.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

Now that he had braved it, the words had destroyed the heavy tight feeling in his chest: _I love you, little bird_. His bird had not forgiven him, but neither had she turned him away. After days of watching her kneel before that bloody tree, she was being kinder than he foresaw. Sansa had changed, was more woman, more of her own without him. She looked radiant, as if their ugly fight had left her stronger somehow; stealing the last reason she had for needing him. But he was an animal made to fight, not flee he reminded, and the truth of it had been decided long ago: _I cannot leave her_.

Sandor had come forth from the brush hiding the limp best he could, as if it might mask all of his ills and weaknesses. Her tweeting had been bloody sweet when she ordered him to consider her words. Yet it laid a curse upon him that had her creeping over his mind and body. She had never deceived him and so there was no shield of protection between them. He had long ago surrendered his integrity for coin and freedom from Gregor; gnashing his teeth against malice and sharping his sword for blood. Only to lay his mountainous hate and mistrust upon her, hurting her as he swore he would never do. Now he must answer for it.

Her mention of Tyrion was a fucking torture. _I'll be damned if I lose her to the Imp_. In refusing to take her innocence the little lord had behaved beyond his own honor; and the sickening knowledge engulfed him like a death sentence justly earned. _When my husband preferred drink and whores I was glad of it_… "Sandor," she spoke calling his attention. "I would _not_ be glad of it with you. It would make me as bitter and ugly as Cercei," she finished in a hushed tone. He paused in his disturbed grief, trying to grasp her meaning. "I do not want a lie Sandor. Tell me you will do your best never to dishonor me. And help me understand why?"

He gave her a grunt then shrugged his shoulders, "I don't have the words, little bird." She turned her head from him, but he caught a glimpse of her eyes, of the veracity that his answer would not do. There was no explaining it; he'd been a shit scared fool. And she had known, saw him clearly enough to go looking for him in the whorehouses. In her beauty and truth she was like a damn mockingbird at his ear repeating all his mistakes and ill fortune.

"I'll tell you, girl. It's how men…how _I_ forget what I am and what I'll never be." She looked up at him with just as much pain as he had voiced. But she nodded; it was enough and her acceptance more than he could hope for. He released a subdued breath, knowing any more between them would take time. For what little thought he gave it, Sandor had imagined love was measured in kindnesses, but his had been defined by shameful things. He had lewdly coveted her from afar, had scorned her innocence as he greedily devoured it; had laughed in joy at her pain of jealousy after being the cause of it. He did not know how to properly tell her the truth of it all.

"I am the Hound. And unlike your father, never given a rat's arse about being a good and honorable man," he continued. "I know I'm not meant for you. Don't bloody deserve you. I've not done right by anyone, not even myself." He took a step closer to reveal the worst of it. "Little bird, the only reason I am sought out is for killing. If I am the knife, then I fear you may one day be the wound."

"No, darling. I am the sheath," she said in earnest, "the one that offers some small protection. That which keeps the knife clean and near to you at the ready. If you would but trust me a little, I will go with you."

Sandor lowered himself to one knee. Looking up at her he cautiously reached out to take the hand she gave willingly. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I'll do my best not to wrong you again. To never make you small and to see you as more. Sansa, I have always seen it."

Sansa let out a stifled yip and surged towards him, crumbling in to his arms. He tucked her firmly to him with a thankful sigh and he immersed himself in her scent and her softness. Sandor felt wet tears along his right cheek and as she embraced him so tightly he hoped she would never let go. She pulled back and hurriedly pressed her delicate mouth to his. Sandor tilted to deepen the angle of their hungry kiss as he wound his fingers through her hair to exact more. _Is it settled then_? he wondered, pulling away to see her delight through damp eyes. "Gods you smell horrid," she sobbed and he barked in laughter. "But Sandor…" she peeped.

"So it's settled then?" interrupted Elder Brother. Startled they separated and both turned to him. "I don't think we have much time, but tell me, what's to be done now?"

"We leave. Tonight," Sandor rasped in a tone that suffered no argument. "Go, pack your things. But remember..."

"My things are already packed." _Bugger me_! _Of course they are_, she had believed in him, had been waiting for him since that first night.

"No," said Elder Brother, "you cannot. You have not thought this through."

"Don't tell me no, old man. This does not concern you," he gritted.

"It concerns me very much," he rebuked. "And you will need my help; there is Baedon to consider now."

"Your help? You have no idea what you're meddling with," he growled sourly. "And what the hell does Baedon have to say about it?"

"He knows about the child. You are not…"

"Child?" Sandor looked at Sansa in disbelief, then to Elder Brother who started apologizing for saying more than was his right. Pushing back, he returned to her gaze.

"Our child, Jon," she said softly smiling with a hand placed over her belly. Her expression faltered against his, "This is not what I intended, not now. It's just…I didn't think." _But I did_. He searched her harder under a dark furrowed brow.

"But…?" It didn't make sense; not that she was with child or that she would betray him in such a way.

"Gods help you, Sandor!" she shouted, rising to stomp her foot. "If you say something horrible now, I will…I…I will not forgive you again, not for a _very_ long time!"

_She's forgiven me_? And with the gust of cold wind that slapped him pertly in the face, relief washed over him just as swiftly. Perhaps she had forgiven it all: his cowardice, his betrayal, the blood, the scars; all of it. And she had given him a son: _Two sons and a daughter she said_, _I can make you happy_. He was happy, as merry as a court fool, and it felt glorious! Sandor laughed aloud booming and joyous, then grabbed his pretty bird to him so she could not fly away. "It's Jon then? Just as you said?"

"You believe? In the word of the gods?" she asked hesitantly.

"Buggering no! But I'll believe you. I'm forsworn now aren't I?" He picked her up and nuzzled her close as they both laughed, kissing long and passionately once more.

"Brother you must listen. You are ill prepared to leave now and will not get far. When it comes to Alayne, Baedon will have plenty of help. You cannot possibly evade the men here in the Pans or anywhere along the bay to the Forks. Not with the child to consider. Please, Brother, go back to the Isle. Keep to the West Watch and make your preparations. When I return with Brother Pull, I will help you."

"Elder Brother is right. We need a proper plan. Baedon threatened to…"

"He threatened you! Then he's a dead man and no longer our worry." Sandor dropped her to the ground with every intention of heading straight for Baedon.

"Sandor stop! Please. Baedon is a good man. His concern is for his family's safety. We cannot begrudge him that when it comes to my father," she pleaded.

"Your _father_! Do you have any idea what he'll do to you when that bastard tells him?"

"He will likely kill me, but we still have a little time; enough to do as Elder Brother suggests."

"Gods woman! He won't! Not when he can still make use of you! He will kill the child and then you will be served up in one of his whorehouses. I'll kill him before I allow it!" Sandor paced and roared wondering how quickly he could find Littlefinger and damn him to hell. Sansa came to him, grabbed his hand solidly. With her death grip and a glance, she begged him to trust her. _Seven hells_! He had made a promise; and moreover, the damn Brother was right.

He nodded once giving his consent. "I will do whatever you ask," he conceded, distracted by thoughts of killing. When he finally turned to his little bird again she was looking to Elder Brother scared. "Look at me!" he demanded through gritted teeth. "I am done being a fucking coward. This is the _last_ time I leave your side. We will return, you will come with me and you will do exactly as I say. Do you agree?"

"Yes, my love. I swear it."

[12.08.06]


	18. Bird Takes Flight

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Well (10 dragons poorer for being a dark urban fantasy reader) I post this chapter for the ConstantLover-don't be a rag doll dear, and Crystal-I care about EB' view too.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 18 – Bird Takes Flight**

**Sandor**

Sandor sheathed his knife before lifting the inanimate little shit over his shoulder to haul him away. Their preparations had been thorough and with only moments left things were going just as planned; easier in fact. The most difficult part so far had been convincing the little bird to give up her clothing.

_Here put these on_. "_They're men's clothes_," she replied in a hesitant whisper. He grunted in irritation, _So_? "_They're breeches_." _Just until the Isle_. "_But they'll be too revealing_." Bloody hell, she was whimpering already and they hadn't even gotten started. _That tunic will be long on you, and the robe_. She held the woolen garments up to herself for measure. _Little bird_, _please_, _while the moon's still up_.

He'd seen the pretty wolf safely to her den hours ago. He had spoken very little as his mind chronicled the tasks ahead. She was truly his now, from the moment she stepped in to his room and again tonight when she put her wadmal sack in the cart. And he still had no bloody idea what to do with her.

_A wife_. It was a weighty word, foreign to him, but fearing it would only bring more suffering. He then laughed recalling she was not _his_ wife, but the Imps. _Poached a lion's bride_, making it all the more toothsome somehow. "_What is it, darling_." _Nothing, little bird_, and she gifted him that smile, the one that was only for him.

He didn't like leaving her to wait alone, but he needed her out of harm's way. He'd made sure her burrow was well hidden, but could not stop the uncertainty from gnawing at him even after giving her the knife. She had quizzically stared at it before accepting, like it was a dried up old turnip she didn't know what to do with. But like a good girl, she didn't argue. _She'll need to learn how to use it before too long_.

Departing early again, the Brothers had made plenty of noise to be sure seen. Then just before reaching the town, Sandor turned back alone in to the dense fog to travel along the hidden path. He'd told neither of this part of the plan. Sansa did not want Baedon hurt, but he be damned if he'd let that bastard get away with threatening her.

Squatting to fill Baedon's special brew in to the empty wineskins he recounted: he'd seen to the bird, the book, the dress, both camps, now the drink… _would've liked that pretty flask of his_, and next the final strike. In truth he'd take no pleasure in it, _but I'm done being a fucking craven_!

*******/*******

He silently rode sweating from the run as Elder Brother pulled along the weather-covered cart. They reached the west edge of town without delay seeing little activity this early in the morn. He noticed the Brother looking back, his attention fixed on the soaring noise of alarm. "Fire!" someone shouted. "There's smoke to the east. It's a fire!"

Sandor glanced at the running men envisioning blistering hot yellow-orange tongues lapping at the alehouse. Baedon's brew had ignited in a frightening rush, the townsfolk would need to move quickly if there was to be much left. He'd promised not to kill the bastard, but swore nothing about striking him where it would hurt. He smiled knowing it would be a good distraction, add to the confusion and limit Baedon's resources.

Feeling the Brother's eyes on him, "Unless they're stupid, none will be hurt." He'd done his best, knowing he'd have to tell little bird; there was no keeping anything from her now.

*******/*******

**Alayne**

The wait had been miserably damp, yet not near as chilled with the layers of clothing provided. Under the light of the waxing moon she watched her breath, reminded of their first night at the Strongsong. She relived the honeyed memory trying to block out the odd sounds of the forest and the worry for the Brothers.

To her the plan seemed sound, clever in its diversions and assiduous in its demands. Sandor had not let her come to him during his stay, claiming it was too much of a risk. His presence was once again a great comfort and her need for him was growing as physically as the child inside her. His refusal seemed unfair. He'd been distant upon his return, preoccupied; but before he had left her in that dank hole, she stopped his leave to thank him properly. Sansa reached up to brush her lips against his left cheek, lingering, her mouth near his, yearning for a more amorous kiss. "There's no time," he said and left.

She dozed when sleep would come and later watched the morning fog roll and ripple along the ground. _Mayhap it's a good sign_. She had heard few pass along the road, keeping count in case she was asked; until she heard the familiar creaking of the cart, the halt of horses and Sandor's hitched step. "You can come out now, little bird." She reached quickly for purchase and tried to maintain hold of his hand while he pulled away.

"Alayne, are you alright?" Brother Elder was more accommodating as he helped to hide her among the stores in the cart. She was glad to see his familiar warm smile returned.

"Yes. I am comfortable enough."

"You won't be," Sandor added. And he was right. Regardless she stayed silent as they moved onward, speaking only briefly when Elder Brother tried to make conversation. Mostly she wondered about the future and the child; this was only the beginning and they had a very long way to go. His temper had been fractious since their reunion at the heart-tree and he seemed to feel the need to bark at her to get her to obey. I was quite unfair when it would all have been so much easier if he… But her thoughts were too discourteous to finish. Her best course was to find a way to lighten his mood and for that she had her own plan in mind.

Shortly before nightfall they left the road to travel over a narrow field, behind the pine towards the base of the mountain. There wasn't a proper path and the men had to push the cart forcibly as she led the horses. Their diversion was brought up short by a tall face of rock that stood almost twice Sandor's height. The mountain side climbed vastly higher just behind it.

The men gathered a few things before securing the cart's cover tightly. Sansa watched dusk's reddish glow come from the west, it was a lovely sight. Under the light the rock face glowed a bit like the outer castle wall at Winterfell. With a boost she was able to get up to the slight trail that led to the ledge supported by the lithic rising. From the looks of it the camp was already prepared.

"This is a nice place." _Clever_, she thought. Sandor replied with a noncommittal grunt. "It is considered a good de-_fens_ible position, is it not?" He smiled as if she pleased him finally and she was glad to intrude upon his brooding.

Elder Brother prepared the fire and the food while Sandor scouted the area. Alayne spoke as she went to help, "Did everything go alright at the inn, Elder Brother?"

"I saw no trouble to be concerned about. Do you need anything, Alayne? Or have questions I can answer?" She smiled at him kindly as much for his thoughtfulness as the fact that he seemed to know Sandor well.

"No, thank you. Sandor has told me all I need to know. We wait for the initial search to pass at the Isle for one or two days, then make our way." She said nothing about where they were going, best no one knew. "But you must call me Bertie from now on Elder Brother."

"Bertie?" Sandor interrupted. "How the hell d'you come up with a name like Bertie?"

"I let the children decide while creating one of our stories. Do you not like it?"

"No," he retorted flatly.

"Well that's unfortunate. It did seem a name easy for you to remember," in a jesting tone. "I had thought to pick a name for myself, but could not decide. And the choices given by the children were limited. There was Tercela, Cheeper, Bertie and Rajyna."

"You chose well then," from a smiling Elder Brother. _Hrmphh_, she thought it a second agreement.

"Have you picked a name, darling?"

"I like Grave Digger just fine."

"No, that will not do. I should not like to be called Lady Grave Digger."

"You forget yourself, girl. You are lady of nothing." Alayne raised her head to give Sandor a duly nasty look, but saw Elder Brother had taken up the chore nicely. Those three words,_lady of nothing_, disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

"I rather like Grave. It's seems like a fitting surname," added with sarcasm. "How about Charlys as your given name?"

"What sort of buggerer do you take me for?" he snorted.

"Percy, then," she added with a concealed smile.

"A cunt's name!"

"The name means hunter of the dell. I thought you might like it," feigning innocence. Alayne had put hours of thought in to both their names, though he would think her foolish for it. "Your coloring is dark enough that we could choose something like Mhysilli?"

"Mhysilli! That sounds mocking to the gods even to me. My silly grave. No." She giggled along with Elder Brother.

"Oh dear, your right, that _was_ awful."

"How about Yorn?" the Brother offered, "Ee be a man to put you in 'yorn grave." Alayne laughed out loud at the name and sinister voice he used to tease at it.

"Very good Elder Brother, but all are terrible. How about Hektor? It means loyal." The warhorse her father rode in to battle was named Hektor. The look on Sandor's face made her wonder if he knew it too. Perhaps it suited because he gave no disagreement.

"Better than Bertie Grave," was his reply. The group stayed silent for some time and it was an amiable peace. So Alayne laid back and just listened to the sounds of the forest, looking for stars through the clouds of the night sky.

"I read the name Bertie means northern brightness. That sounded nice. Would you like to hear some of the story we came up with about Bertie?"

"Yes. I would like to hear it very much," said Elder Brother. Sandor's _humh_, however, said no.

She took her time in the starting of it; gathering the details to mind that she wanted to convey to her beloved. "Once upon the day there was a little yellow bird who flew far away from home to see what she could see." Here she paused, to make sure both were at full attention.

"The sky was so beautiful as were all the many trees. Soon the little bird found she was distracted and lost. Worried she found a near tree to land upon and there she met a battered old dog. The dog however was _very_ hungry. And he decided he wanted to eat the little bird, he need only to find a pot to cook her in first." Pausing again, Alayne stretched with a furtive glance to Sandor, finding him smirking as she'd hoped.

"Having no pot at hand, the hungry dog talked nicely to the little bird so she would come with him. The dog took the bird to the most perfect tree which was where he lived. There the dog built a fire and heated water in his rusty old pot. While they waited for the water to boil, the little bird sang him sweet songs and asked him what he liked. Soon the battered old dog found he liked the bird most of all. So he told her she could stay in his tree if she wished. And he would see to it none of the other animals in the forest would eat her. The little bird said she would stay in his tree, but first he must tell her why, and he must tell it true." _Hrmphh_, she heard.

"'Because you have pretty yellow feathers,' the dog said. 'And?' the little bird asked. 'Because your songs are nice too.' 'And?' she asked again. 'Because I love you little bird.' The little bird fluffed her feathers and preened before she gave answer." Reaching down to pull a crusted leaf from her boot Alayne delayed.

"What did she say?" asked Elder Brother.

"She said 'I will gladly stay in your tree because I love you too'. And then the little bird soared in to the air, rounding the tree and sang out her happiest song, loud and true."

"How perfect," said, Elder Brother kindly while Sandor's scoffed.

"But that's not the end of it you see. The old dog likes to have the last bark." Both men looked to her; the Brother inquiring, and Sandor with a lip curled under a glare. Alayne stood up, shook her head and shoulders, and cleared throat. In her best imitation she growl, "Bloody hell! That damn bird really _does_ love me." Even Sandor managed a full chuckle.

"You're forgetting one thing, _Bertie_. I don't have a tree or a bloody piss pot." His words were rough, but still there was amusement twitching at his lips. He'd gotten her message; there was no need for things between them to be serious or somber now.

"I think we will manage perfectly well."

*******/*******

**Elder Brother**

"Do either of you want more potatoes?" No, they both said in unison and seemed to find it funny. It was nice to see them enjoying one another rather than shouting. Only the gods knew if they would survive each other. When Clegane left to check on the horses and the surrounding area Elder Brother took the opportunity he may not find again.

"Are you certain you are following an honorable path, Alayne?" he inquired.

"You must call me Bertie," she said. "And yes, Brother. I have prayed for some time on this and I will not be without him. Grave is all I have."

"I believe you may have that backwards, Bertie," he added with a smile to lighten the comment.

"No," she said with a soft return. Looking up at the stars, "You think I cannot love him, because of his name, his manner and the blood on his hands."

"He is a bloody man, has killed many."

"Yes." She paused to study him. "What you do not know, Elder Brother, is that I have killed too." He could see tears threatening and she sounded bleak, "I have prayed for forgiveness and I try to find it in myself. But I need him for that too; just as I am able to grant him the same."

Elder Brother's eyebrow arched in disbelief, thinking of what he would never mention: the Saltpans. "Yes," she said sternly. "I forgive him everything," letting that settle. "I too have nothing worth giving. My purpose is with him. That I love him makes it easy." He gave her another arched look; nothing he saw had been easy. She laughed a little. "Yes. He is coarse and I am foolish. It may always be a hard won happiness, but it will be a rewarding one," she finished with a hand on her belly.

"I think you have much to give, my friend. I myself have been moved by your graceful song and beauty."

"Do you not believe such things are fleeting, dear Brother; of little consequence beyond one's youth? Am I to be satisfied with such words on my gravestone?" she added without irony. "You speak of beauty, is it the scars that make you doubt? I assure you, Brother, I no longer see them. And whilst less visible I have my own scars."

"Not at all. My only concern is for your safety."

"Then you may rest easy. No one is more committed on that account than Grave. He would give his life for me."

"My concern is for you in a _family_ way. I do not doubt he is capable of protecting you. He was the Lannister's most deadly dog for years."

"He is no dog, Elder Brother!" she snapped. "He has been his own man since long before he was even a man's age. He will be my lover or my husband, but _never_ my dog!"

"I am sorry. I meant no offense."

"No, please, Brother. Do not apologize," she said visibly cooling. "I am sorry, for I meant to thank _you_, Brother. You have been a great help to us both, generous and kind. It could not have been an easy undertaking. I should like to be the one to call you friend."

*******/*******

**Sandor**

He should not be listening to the conversation unseen, but suspected that one or both knew he was there. They had irritated him on the road, the happy joking pair; choosing to forget the seriousness of their situation. But now _she_ was barking, and truthfully he loved to see her like this; though no doubt would learn to regret it in times to come.

It was rare for anyone to see her Stark blood, when they were taken in so fully by her Riverland beauty. It was said the Starks were weaned by direwolves, and when her fury was upon her he could believe it. She had become her father's daughter, yet trained by her mother so one barely felt the bite when delivered sweetly. _No man could withstand her_, he thought shaking his head. Just like with her childish dog story, she had tamed him again. _How the hell will I manage her_?

"I am your friend, Alayne," Elder Brother added with gravity.

Sandor hoisted himself up then approached to place more wood on the fire. He was softened to hear her defending him, and seeing evidence of her tears asked, "You alright, little bird?"

"Of course, darling," she smiled. "Sit with me. I need you to keep me warm." She almost sounded as if playing with him again and it warmed his heart to think his presence was her cure.

"Don't much like this talk of gravestones," letting her know he'd been there.

"Sorry, darling." Teasingly she added, "But it is only proper you should know. If I am to be buried in my family crypt, then I would wish my etching to be something more worthy than, '_Sang for the grave digger_'." He joined in with their light laughter, but it was a false merriment. She was more likely to be interred under a flat rock, just off the road, that read, '_Loved by the Hound and their unborn_ _child_'.

He felt an oppressive queer mood coming on with this talk. But before his mind could discharge its nagging memory he was diverted by Elder Brothers next question. "You say your family has a crypt where you are expected to be buried?"

Little bird tucked in close, raising her eyes up to him. It was unusual for Sansa to be careless with words, yet she had said too much. No baseborn would ever be welcomed in a family crypt. Sandor gave her a hard stare to discourage any reply. _Best leave it_, the old man would not question further; but her face said she had made a different decision.

"Yes, my family has a crypt where our ancestors have been buried for a great many seasons." Elder Brother's eyes gleamed, all too interested at divining more of her mystery. "And I think it only right for you to know my true name. Though I believe, Brother, you have already guessed what it is." She smiled confidently and Sandor realized she was possibly right, Elder Brother was no fool.

"Yes, I have. But I don't profess to understand it all," he confirmed with a closed-mouthed smile. "As you know, our _grave_ Clegane speaks little, but he did speak of you." _I did_?

"Then you will have guessed that I hail from the North. My father was Lord Eddard Stark." Elder Brother paled and appeared debilitated by the shock. Apparently he was piss poor at guessing games. In fact, Sandor had no bloody idea who he thought Sansa was. "My mother was Catelyn Tully. I am Sansa…"

"Stark! The _Northern Princess_? Lady Stark-Lannister?" Sandor cleared the name's distaste from his throat.

"Oh, you pick a _fine time_ for understanding, Brother! I said you had no idea what you're meddling with."

"G-good gods. Sansa Stark…of Winterfell. They're looking for you." Elder Brother's eyes where wide and bewildered. Perhaps it _was_ a tale romantic enough to bring on a good faint. "I…" He took a deep breath trying to collect himself. "I thought your name was Petit."

"What!" Sandor roared. "That ain't Petit _you fool_!" He bolted to a stance to confront the offense. "Watch yourself, Brother," he snarled darkly. "She's a Lady not a whore. And none more honorable or higher born than Stark."

"Mayhap I should have known. But the Inn…" he said ignoring Sandor.

"Oh you're in it now," menacingly before him. "Don't think this changes anything! I'd hate to kill you, Brother, but you'll be dead just the same if you think of breaking faith now."

"No. Of course… I apologize Lady Stark. It… is a pleasure to meet you," he said rising with a lost gaze. Elder Brother hadn't even bothered to look at him since Sansa's pronouncement. When Sandor spared a glance at her she only had eyes for him. The eyes of a wolf. She was standing tall and proud with a hand on her hip and her foot suspiciously poised for stomping.

"Who's Petit?"

"Ah, bloody hell!"

[12.08.11]

* * *

_**A/N**: No, we are not going down another dark hole; tender reunion at the Quiet Isle is next._


	19. Wind Blew Out of a Cloud

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Sorry for the extended delay; was writing through to the end and will wrap up the post within the week.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 19 – Wind Blew Out of a Cloud **

**Sandor**

They made way before daybreak to reach the crossing when travelers would be few. Elder Brother parted for the common while Sandor placed Sansa on the mare before him to advance towards the Watch. She did not speak as the horse marched on, yet showed no signs of disquiet. If she was still mulling over Petit, he thought it best to stay clear; and right now his best was to keep his pissing mouth shut.

After unleashing his anger on Elder Brother he had started to explain, choosing words with unusual care. Details about Petit's generosity and humor would be no help. _She's likely still in Kings Landing with her brats and husband_, he had tossed out absently. "_She has a family_!" Sansa took strangely to the notion, gnawing silent and stubborn to get down to the marrow of it. He watched every thought pass over her face; a soundless demonstration that she was still an unfledged bird. He wanted to assure her that she would never have to make such choices to survive, but he was simply too relieved to be done with the subject of whores. The truth had proven unfriendly on these accounts.

Leaning in, the mare clambered up the rise to pass through the fruit trees that lined the West Watch. At the clearing he heard a jolted breath and looked down over her shoulder to follow her eyes, "It's lovely."

"Is it?" With a subdued smile, Sandor neared the stable rail to dismount, letting the familiar peace of the Isle calm him too. _This is good_, if she was again happy, then he could be happy too.

"Yes. Is it all like this? Your cottage by the graveyard? Oh, there's Stranger; he's alone," she added solemnly heading towards the beast to give him some comfort.

"Watch it, girl. He's a black temper like his master." He quickened his step to prevent Stranger from claiming any of her fingers. "The cottages and commons are plain, not like this."

"Oh, this would make such a beautiful scene for stitching," she continued from a lower vantage point. "It's a wonder they added so many fine plants and flowers to such a place."

"Because I thought you'd like it." Her head jerked towards him, long lashes fluttered to catch his meaning. "Surprised you did I? That's good. I've been staying here for a time."

"You did all this?" taking her look again.

"No," he chuckled. "Builder group did the cottage. I worked on the rest some after." She continued to look curiously at him, her pleasant surprise forcing a grin.

He could see question after question on her face, but she settled on one shyly. "May we go inside?"

"I got your sack. Go on," he nodded. "It's not much, just one room and a cave, but it'll do." Inside he found Sansa gliding about the room approving and even touching the smallest effects. He liked seeing her so pleased: with him, with the Watch and in the exploring of new things. "I hung the cloth before the bed if you need it private. Look where you want," as she stood curious by his modestly laden trunk.

"What's that?" she asked with a gesture to the container leaning against the wall. "Is it for bathing?" Sandor grunted to say it was. "It's very large."

"So am I." He pulled the tub down in to place. "Look. The water flows out here when you're done. I'll see to it before I go. Might be the last warm bath you're offered for a while," he prompted.

"You're going?" This disappointment in her voice softened him a bit more.

"I must, little bird. There'll be questions if I don't. You'll be safe. Come, I'll show you the rest."

*******/*******

He returned itching anxious at having left her alone. She did not hear his approach, sitting with her legs drawn up under in the open air of the cook area. _Stupid bird should be paying attention_. But before the abrupt reprimand was unleashed, he was taken in by her serene profile, noting that she'd done something to her hair. Absorbed by the naked space between her shoulder and neck he recalled the smell of apricots and her textures, soft under his hand. She had exchanged the clothes she escaped in for a plain dress which was a disappointment. The breeches _were_ revealing, showing the space between her long lean legs that accompanied her comely arse. _She's a woman made to be looked at_, he mused.

Sandor marveled at how she could be so delicate yet firm and unwavering, even when confronted with his rancor. He'd failed at protecting her from the Lannisters and himself, nonetheless she was here at the Isle just as he'd wished; staunchly mending his shirts and preparing to flee with _the Hound_. It would take time to make up for all his damn blunders. He'd never tried to amend any before; yet knew he needed no vow to oblige him upon given another chance.

Watching the work of her sinewy arms and wrists, Sansa stopped to swipe a tear from her cheek. _As if I could right it all_, he thought bitterly. _She changed her mind_, he concluded, preferring to take her chances with some other whoring bastard. "Little bird?" he croaked, fighting the queer feeling threatening in his chest. _Guess I _will_ need that fucking vow if I'm to obey_.

When her eyes met his they lit as brightly as her pink lipped smile. "You're back," she said skipping to cloak herself with him. "I missed you." She pulled him close and his body slackened around her, sighing profoundly at the reprieve.

"You alright?"

"Of course, darling, it's nothing." _Darling_, he favored the taunt now. He softly pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger to be certain.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"The babe makes me weepy is all. When I saw the clothes Elder Brother left for Jon… And then I started to worry for Baedon's children." Pulling her in again, he sank in to her fresh fruity scent.

"You need to eat. Come inside. I've brought food."

Inside Sansa unwrapped the bundle, delighted to find honey biscuits with fresh butter. She beamed at him, leaning in to rest a small hand on his arm as he looked about the room. "You've been busy. You bathe? Smell like you did."

"Yes. I brought up that water for you."

"Thanks, little bird. I could damn well use a bath."

*******/*******

**Sansa**

It was rare moment of idleness and indulgence soaking in Sandor's long deep-seated tub, the weightlessness appeasing her mind and tired bones. Sansa tried to recall the last time she had truly been free and alone for any length of time. She was free now, free from all of it: the plotting, the games, the deceits she too had played. _Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance_, Septa Mordane's voice floated. _It's about duty Sansa_. She was free of that too.

Spreading her fingers over the small bump in her belly, she dreamt dolefully of a happiness like Winterfell for her child. Since Sandor had found her in the East Pan, their way had not been as effortless or secure as she had stitched in her mind. She knew there'd be more hardships to come, but it was the distance between them that now needed to be put right.

After, she tidied and arranged the small cottage as she would one of the rooms at the Inn. Her thoughts grew a bit maudlin as she combed through the clothing Elder Brother had left in the cave. She would keep the tunic and breeches if allowed; they were not comfortable to her, but would be practical for rough travel. The dresses he'd left were plain and clean and would need altering to fit her changing body. _The clothes of a troubled woman_, she thought morosely. From this day forward all gained would be begged or borrowed, never hers. _You are lady of nothing_, she reminded. There would be no more fine silks made especially for her, no more feasts or friends; she felt the loss of the heart-tree acutely, even her hair was gone.

Tears threatened when she uncovered two small shifts and a tiny covering meant for a newborn babe. _Where are they now_, she wondered, _buried by the gravedigger_? Shame sank her spoiled emotions low considering how awful it must have been for Sandor to carry out such tasks. And for the troubled women who did not have a man for protection. Would they have survived if they had a man such as he? He had not promised she would; daring not to lie about the dangers ahead and she loved him all the more for it.

Calling up his strength, Sansa gathered the garments that needed mending and went outside. The slight wind was crisp and enough of the sun's glow blew through the clouds to touch her skin. She found peace gazing out at the beautiful landscape mindful of all that was good. This free life was what she wanted. She knew Sandor wanted it too, seeing the small things he would do to please her; those things without words.

*******/*******

"I'll see to the water," she offered as he started to remove his robe.

"I can do it," he chafed.

"No, darling. Let me be useful." When the temperature was right he was wearing no more than breeches, "I'll get the lavender." She went out to the cook area where the bundles she picked were hanging to dry. She returned to find him lying back, with eyes closed, relaxing in to the steamy heat of the bath. His face was calm; smooth on one side, aberrant on the other. She had never seen him so naturally at ease. He was such a large imposing man, his powerful body muscled for fighting, always alert and in movement even when still. When she looked to his face again she blushed at having her scrutiny discovered.

"I have the soap here," she started, dropping her eyes and the lavender in the tub as she passed. He reached to the short-stool she had placed at the head of the tub. "Here, let me." His look was unsure, brow puckering like he was appraising a stalking foe. "Tilt your head back so I may wet your hair," smugly she grabbed the bowl of soap and settled on the stool.

Failing to obey, the water churned and knees popped out when he slid down to immerse his head. He resurfaced swiping at his face with his right hand. Sansa reached silently, fingers probing at his crown. Rinsing his head twice, she followed the streams of water which travelled the crevices of his disfigured cheek. Then started purposefully upon the wide expanse of his back with the soft bark she had pried from one of the trees. Soon she abandoned the bark to let her curious fingers knead slickly at his warm skin, drawing small sounds of approval from his throat. She enjoyed him like this, so pliant under her care.

When starting on his left shoulder he reclined to rest his immense arms along the tub's edge. He had many scars on this arm; there were so few places where he was unscarred. There was a fiercely beauty about him when viewed with a devoted eye. "Darling, are you hurt?" she asked finding dried blood from a fresh cut.

"Just a scrape. I was put to training the Brothers before we go."

"And your face, here," touching his left cheek just below his eye, which upon closer inspection was raw and swollen.

"That was Elder Brother."

"What did you do?" she asked bewildered.

"Me? I barely touched him. It was part of his plan, little bird. Give good reason for me to go away. I'll tell you, he took to it easily enough." She was amused by the image; it was no easy task taking on the Hound's fury. "Smile all you like, little bird. I'd guess he did it for you."

"I'm sure he was just being thorough," she replied glibly as she moved to tend to his right. When she started on the large flat planes of his chest, his eyes closed and his head lolled back along the wooden edge. She slid her soapy fingers through the small hairs scrubbing slowly down his front. He released another contented noise, happy as any dog to have his belly rubbed. Not daring to go further, Sansa moved the stool down to the end of the bath. "Give me a foot, darling."

"This how the ladies maids do it?" _If only I could keep him like this forever_. The distance between them had tapered; their instruments seemed more in tune. Whether it was the hot bath or feeling safe at the Quite Isle, she was determined to find the melody this agreeable peace required.

"Yes, just so."

"I'll sleep well tonight," he added and she scrubbed more roughly at the dirt.

"Would you like me to sing for you, or tell you a story?"

"If you like," he replied, but fixed on her before speaking again. "No more child's tales, little bird. If you've got something to say, best say it." He was right of course. She wanted him to regard her as a woman; trying to assure him of her love with silly tales was not the way.

Moving the stool around to his left, Sansa commence with his front again to soften him. "You said there was none more honorable or higher born than Stark," letting the question in her comment rise slowly.

"Suppose I did."

"I do not want our family names to come between us. Name us as you like, I won't care as long as I am yours. I want a new beginning…for our family." He gave her a single slow nod, perhaps to indicate that he heard her. "We are together now," she braved. "I know it will be dangerous, but you needn't yell at me to make me understand. I don't wish to fight with you any longer."

"Alright, pretty bird. I'll try to do as you bid," he grumbled sedately. "But barking and fighting are my best things," he smirked.

She locked on to his gray gaze until his face mirrored her own. "No, my love," as her fingers twined with his. "Not your best thing." His breathing stopped and his eyes darkened in hunger; he plainly understood. "Come to bed."

"Ah, you go on, I have…"

"I am asking you, Sandor," she summoned. "Come to me. I have waited long enough."

He looked hesitant, almost worried asking, "What about the babe?" Internally she turned over her own smirk in the knowledge she had been taught well by the unfading women of the North; there were still things he did not know that she did.

"The babe will not be disturbed. He wants you close too."

*******/*******

**SanSan**

She grabbed the drying cloth, keeping it from him until confident she had his full agreement. Standing naked before her, Sandor was completely at ease yet positioned to hide the ruin of his face though his wet hair did not fall to cover it. She hated to see him do that now and handed him the cloth to give him a small stay while she walked to the bed to undress.

She brazenly watched him wipe at the water on his arms and chest, then proceed to dry his sex which was now soft and small. He took no care in the task and she noted how different it was to the flesh so large and full that had contained her. It was a strange thing; ill-fitting when compared to the whole of him, as dark and changeful as his moods. She had so many questions as she let his clean dusky warmth wash over her, questions she could ask no one but him.

Sandor returned her leer while she removed the last of her clothing; the curiosity of her flesh never leaving him. _Come to me_. Absorbed by the warmth of her mind and her pale sloping curves he recalled the feeling of her wondrous body as she yielded to his hand. _Gods she breaks me_.

This was her seduction he realized. She had confused him that first night, dropping her dress like a common whore. It was now clear she was doing only as taught: a lady dutifully giving herself to her lord, obediently waiting for his pleasure. _It's all any of them wish use me for_. It pained him that his sweet bird understood the contemptuous parallels. So he moved to her slowly, needing her to come to him without doubt. She had every right to discard him; he had little and less to offer her.

He stepped within arm's length and his eyes swept down her body feeding on her wintery white skin. Sansa loved it when he admired her like this and felt a hum building within her. His dark roasting stare encouraged her closer and his powerful hands met her step, encircling her waist to bring her to him. The warm points of their bodies touched, pulling her belly as tight as the rhythm of her breath. She studied his hesitancy when his hands slid slowly upwards, brushing against the soft underside of her breasts and she turned in to one inviting.

The first touch had Sandor's cock rising for a firm fight, begging him to turn her more, to spin her around and push her face down on the bed. The little bastard was crying out to dominate her; for him to shove his tongue in her, to wet his hand the same before thrusting in to her uncorrupted sweetness. But it was her desires he'd vowed to follow, he establish. _Am I so very selfish for wanting more_, his mockingbird had asked. _No, little bird_. Scooping her up, he brushed his lips along her face, then to hers and kissed her deeply. She slung her arms around his neck and panted in to his mouth when their kiss redoubled upon itself.

Feeling the new heaviness in the thrust of her teats Sandor lifted her higher. Sansa kept focused on his ragged mouth as he nibbled at her breasts, flooding her with the heat of his tongue. His smell was strong and clean, and her head lagged in to the combined pleasure of feeling his desire upon her thighs. _He is won_, she internally sang to their shared tune.

With a grasp just below her bottom he slid her slowly lower, looking to her under a heavy brow. Sansa felt her familiar wind mounting as he pulled her brutishly tight. She rushed to his open lips when he spread her twittering legs slightly so the softest part of her rested on his. His previous softness was now a stone gem, its luster now burning her blissfully to dampen her aptitude for speech or thought.

Sandor started at her helpless under the lidded weight of her drowning blue eyes. He felt a trickle of sweat trailing down his back while encumbered in the juncture of her thighs. The warmth of her moist center sent his blood coursing wildly and when their lips met again he squeezed tightly at her arse. She moaned and fluttered, and he echoed her sounds rubbing her over his bellowing cock.

Sansa tilted her head back, racing up that Northern hill, towards the delightful sensations that danced throughout her body. She felt faint and let out a surprising groan needing to let go already. "Wait," he said. _No_! She didn't want to wait anymore and selfishly darted her tongue in to his mouth to pull him in to her demands.

"I know, sweet pearl," he said, grabbing her left leg more fully to wrap it over his hip. Sandor sat them on the bed and cupped her arse, floating her tiny body over his lap poised at her entrance. His ache was unyielding as he attentively sat her down upon him. He slowly rocked her to him with a hand pressed across the full width of her lower back. She had all of him now, _I won't leave you again_.

Sandor stilled and she watched the emotions sail though his eyes until the brush of his lips at her temple shaped her lax and senseless. She grasped his shoulder for balance when she felt him lift her up and away, grabbing her attention as he held her there. He then pulsed shallowly within her before he returned her to their full joining to gently rock her again.

The torturous alternating rhythms elicited a groan from Sandor's throat. He was trying to be careful of her and the babe, but as he easily slid in to his bird's wet nest he was compelled to exact more. "Please, Sandor," she said, begging him to finish it. He thrust her away one last time, looking down to where his body met hers, his toes curling and his arms thrumming with tension. _No gods, he shouldn't be doing that_. Sansa rolled her head away from his downward stare and her shameful flush added to the heat boiling through belly. When he pulled her close she pressed in to him tightly to keep from separating again. His rocking became insistent, quickening their pace and her heart pounded to hear his gurgling growls.

"Tell me," she whispered.

_Can you not give me your heart just a little_? "I'm yours," he said.

He surprised her again. She started to place a hand on his cheek to tell him the same, but without warning Sansa was flung wide in to the soaring white blindness. She tried to hold on to him, but lost the thread and simply let go. Sandor exhaled unconsciously at her finish, continuing his small thrusts until he spooled endlessly in to her, to follow his seed.

Sansa lay boneless atop her beloved as numb and exhausted with the pleasure of their union as he was. Once he gained control of his breath, Sandor lifted them and moved to lie properly along the length of the bed. He dragged her alongside him, carelessly tucked under his arm, she mused, like little May would do with one of her dolls.

She lay silent in his arms, thinking as she curled her fingers through his fine hairs, trying to understand it all. Would it always be like this when he took her? Was it the dark impassioned man she wanted or the peaceful one in the tub? And where did she go when he sent her soaring like that? To the gods? _Not one of the holy Seven embodies this_. Unless perhaps that fevered blindness was a tiny death; a fleeting view of the unknown. The Stranger.

She wriggled free to speak with him, so many questions at hand. "Sandor?" But she found him asleep and at peace again.

[12.08.25]


	20. Quite Isle Morn

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Repost after suggestions to clarify. Thanks!  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Chapter 20 – Quite Isle Morn**

**Sansa **

Sansa awoke peacefully cocooned certain she was in the only warm spot on the Isle. With one arm pillowing her head and the other at her waist, she did not wish to move fearing Sandor would awaken. Abed with drifting thoughts of her family, old and new, she openly followed the insensible twitches of his face. _Is he happy_, she wondered, curious how long it would be before she would understand him.

Listening to his heavy sleep Sansa tried to inch out from under the hand that secured her belly, but with each small movement he took hold of more. "No," he clearly spoke, perhaps he'd been thinking too.

"I must," she proclaimed with a lighthearted push at his furry front. Sansa returned from the privy shivering and grateful to see more wood on the fire. Shedding the borrowed robe she leaped back in to his arms, met with an unwelcome growl. "I'm cold," she whimpered.

"I'm aware of that," he grumbled, as she snuggled closer.

"You cut your hair," he said to the back of her head then sniffed at her like a dog might.

"It will be easier. It's darker too. Do you like it?" hesitant to receive a customary ill noise.

"You're beautiful, little bird," he whispered as his lips began nipping at her bare neck. He settled alongside the length of her and she felt the firm suggestion of his body on her backside.

"Darling, it's morning," she said demurely. His mouth travelled to her shoulders then downward to sweep her back while he tasted her. She felt heated again, reminded of such kisses their first night, her mind coveting the memory along with the one made last night.

As vowed to herself, she had remained mindful of his every detail piteous and cruel, but it seemed unfair now when bathing in his tenderness. She was no longer frightened by his face or his anger; that was long ago. Nor did she worry that she knew so little about him, it would be so with any new husband and when in his arms she felt like she knew enough. What did frighten her was the pain, hers and his, miseries that often liked to clash and plunder and culminate in to a bad end.

Blanketing her again, he warmed her breasts with a large hand and pressed himself between the cleft of her arse. "Sandor, it's light out," she simpered, as his hips billowed and flagged.

"Aware of that too." Bringing his lips to her ear as his hand rounded her hip and progressed lower. "You taste even sweeter in the morning, little bird. You can't blame me for that." His hand efficiently separated her legs to cup her saddle and she relaxed in to the dampening touch. With the smallest of movements, Sansa became inert as his fingers spirited away her voice and reason. "I thought to bed you like a proper lady. While we still have a bed."

"Like this?" she managed.

"No," moving to twist her upon her back.

"What of your leg?"

"If the lady allows, I'll bark at it if it doesn't obey," he quipped.

"Darling," she giggled. "Must you tease me?" Using his left leg, Sandor nudged her legs wide to lower himself between them.

"Yes I must. Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she flushed; knowing she had already been won. "I want you to show me."

She watched his advance tender and curious, as he led her along the path towards the blinding hill. She thought of a lady's bedding without love only duty to compel her. _Did my mother feel this_? Perhaps, yet she never spoke the whole truth of it before Sansa was wheeled away down the Kings Road. _It would not have been like this with Joffrey_; swiftly trying to bury the assailing thoughts. Sandor had been the one to see her safe; to free her to want, to take and to think for herself. So she reached for him, thrusting herself in his coarse shadows and fighting for all that was now hers.

*******/*******

Tangled in pools of sweat and morning's glow, Sandor surprised her again. "You can ask your questions now, sweet pearl." _He wishes to speak_?

Sansa had been taught that a lady was to never bring her worries to the marriage bed. Instructed that a man had many concerns to shoulder and a wife's duty was to provide shelter from all burdens when he was at rest. She now wondered if the intent was purely to not spoil such sweet unions. However, he was not one to follow lordly custom and his frank invite beckoned.

"Is this how it always is between a man and a woman?"

"No, little bird," he said chuckling lightly.

"I didn't think so," she admitted. "Tell me, how is it different, my love?" Rather than respond he rose to add more wood to the hearth. At Sandor's derisive grunt she waited, growing concerned at what he would not say. Grabbing a cloth, he rinsed it with the freshly warmed water, then approached to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached for her inner thighs and she shifted to make room for his hand; firm, but not rough like when he washed himself. "You have a gentle touch," she tried, to smooth over the misstep.

*******/*******

**Sandor**

He met her eyes reflecting her neutral smile. Sandor didn't want to make her feel small, but knew drawing questions was a damn mistake. _Fool dog_! Her request was not unreasonable, but what the hell did he know of lords and ladies fucking. He now knew so many things, yet doubted one would be a comfort.

He knew his cock went mad when met with a single look, the excitement compounded by the innocence of her desire. He knew that fucking wasn't about the forgetting when she was still there in the morn. And he also knew she broke him with her unaccustomed sighs and smiles, only to mend him anew with each reach for her belly, because he understood the instinct to protect. _That's how, little bird. That's how_.

She laid there giving him sweet words as warm as the cloth he bathed her with. It still didn't seem real to him yet, that she would give a dog such rare gifts so freely. "Sandor?" _Hum?_ fearing her persistence. Gods he knew more talk of buggering whores would surely force ill words to dull or ruin the peace they'd perched upon. "I hear the sheep."

"Go! In the cave," he commanded, blood rising to sharpen his body and mind. Little bird hopped up quickly to grab her clothing, then worked to straighten the bedding. "Leave it!"

Sandor looked about the room now hearing Stranger, damn thankful she was paying attention when he was not. Heading for his sword, he found no obvious signs of his bird beyond the cup of flowers and the perfumed water. That, and the raw un-lordly smell of fucking; but he had no intention of letting the bastards inside to mark it. He too was perfumed with the scent of damp greens and sharp cloying sweat, and in haste decided to dunk himself in the murky water of last night's bath. "Houah!" he shouted at the bloody frigid bite. Reaching for the drying cloth, he saw Sansa peep around the hidden wall. _Damn bird_!

"Brother Digger!" Waving her back inside, he registered the voice as Brother Biot's. Sandor relaxed a bit,_ likely Elder Brother's plan_. Since his first day at the Quite Isle, none of the Brothers had baulked at his size or temper. The slight Brother Biot from Snakewood, however, always recoiled, unable to hide his nervousness.

Sandor saunter out the door wearing nothing but his brown and dun robe. "I'm bathing. What it is?" He listened, looking around for signs of other dangers.

"S-sorry, Elder Brother sent me. There's been t-trouble in the Saltpans."

"Well spit it out before my balls freeze." Sandor walked over to the cook area, thinking there Sansa might be able to hear the news.

"There was a f-fire at the Strongsong not long after y-you and Elder Brother left." _Bloody hell, I forgot to tell her_. "Elder Brother sent a note," handing him a small brown enclosure. "Two men came by boat to ask if y-you'd seen anything."

"And?"

"One man was a-attacked and a girl is missing," he uneasily spoke.

"Missing? Who?"

"The barmaid, Alayne. At first they thought she…bu-b-, died in the fire, but now they think she may have been taken," speaking to his boots. "The men also a-asked if we had any ravens to get a message to her father. We do not with so few remaining."

"Well was she burned or wasn't she?"

"Th-they don't know. They're still looking," he said wringing his hands.

"I'll come."

"No. I mean, they're gone. Elder Brother sent Brothers Pull and Kerr to help in the search. He would like y-you to carry the message for her father to Kings Landing."

"Kings Landing?" he asked letting the false resentment and disbelief rise in his voice.

"Er, yes. I believe it's in the letter," which Sandor opened to read. "I see y-you have lavender," he said looking anywhere but at him. Sandor's head snapped to the kitchen's structure expecting to see one of little bird's pretty ribbons anchoring the collection, but the bundles she hung looked to be tied with leather string.

"It says I'm to head to the Great Sept. Unless I meet with a Brother to take up the task. Then I search for the girl in the Forks."

"Yes, that sounds correct, but it was hard to follow. Elder Brother and Pull were very worried."

"Pull, huh?"

"Yes, I believe he is quite fond of the girl." _No man, no Brother_…

"Then take the mare with you; and the lavender. Anything else?" he said dismissing him while Biot recounted the food stores he brought at Elder Brother's insistence.

*******/*******

**SanSan**

After thanking the Brother he walked in to the cottage, churning through the tasks at hand while he waited for Sansa to come out of the cave. "You hear?"

"Yes. Is everything alright?" He nodded, waiting for angry questions about the alehouse. "Shall I read the letter?"

"I can read," he barked defensively.

"Of course, my love. I…have looked through your books." Sansa was taken aback by the suggestion and thought that perhaps his resumed unpleasantness stemmed from some new worry. She turned her focus to the enclosures he handed her. "Do you know these names?"

"No, but they are Brothers he is certain will help us. Burn them." Sansa committed the names and septs to memory then toss the letters in to the fire. "There is nothing unexpected, but best we leave tonight," he followed.

Yes, darling." She started to ask about the Strongsong, but he plucked the question from her first.

"I set fire to Baedon's alehouse," waiting for her ire. "That bastard should never have threatened you." His speech was aggressively foul, but she only nodded at the following silence seeing a vague remorse in his eyes. "No one was hurt, I made sure of it. I meant to tell you, little…"

Nodding again, "We have much to do," she interrupted. "Tell me how best to help you, darling."

"Pack our things. I need to finish the cart and ready Stranger."

"Our things? But I don't know what you wish to take."

"Just do it," he snapped. "Please, Sansa. Just…do your best," he softened. He hadn't lied when he said there was nothing unexpected, yet Sandor had hoped for more time with her at the Quiet Isle. In all honesty, he wanted an eternity there, gluttonously bedding and bathing, but knew he could not keep her safely burrowed away at the cottage forever. He had already become complacent, failing to hear the Brother's approach and that was sure get her and his child killed.

*******/*******

Sansa started with the most cumbersome chores first, like boiling water and washing. Sandor voiced no objections to her work while he busied himself assembling a small strange looking cart. Lastly she placed all the things they might need, save food, folded properly on to the bed. On the edge were the items she was certain they would take and behind those indeterminate for his approval. She then finished the small amount of mending from the day before.

Staying inside so as not to draw his temper, Sansa viewed the sum of her life laid out before her; _our lives_, she corrected. While he fussed with the cart and his tools she considered all that they now owned, sorry to be leaving the cottage behind. There was more than one or two could carry and more than would fit in his trunk, but not by much. Recalling stories of how the free folk lived, she moved a few more things to the back.

"Looks like you've done well," he said, coming in for food.

"I believe so," she said, explaining that which was on the bed.

Rising he went to inspect her work. "Good gods, woman, you brought my cloak? What the hell else did you bring?"

"You gave this to me. I will not be without it!" He growled at her in displeasure, but in truth he didn't mind seeing her attachment to it and liked seeing the little bird defiant. He asked about the remnants of leather, accepting them as a wise addition, as well as all the damn fabrics which would likely be needed at some point.

"Here, add this. It's for you," laying a bundle down as he sat next to her breeches. She noted it was somewhat small and hard, wrapped in the same manner as the food he had brought.

"What is it? A present?" Eager at the thought, she opened it. "It's a sh…"

"A sheath, for your knife." It did not seem a very romantic present to her mind, but when she met his eyes, her heart stilled. _Some small protection, near to you and at the ready_, perhaps it was. "I made it plain then asked Brother Tanner to do the scrolling. No harm if it's pretty."

"Thank you, darling," almost weepy at the gesture. "I have no present for you," she frowned.

"No matter."

"Then I think I shall reward my generous protector with a ladies favor," she said with an attempt to sound light. Raising one eyebrow he gave her a quizzical look. "A kiss," she pronounced.

"A kiss?" he said, feigning disappointment. "That I can take for myself."

Sansa moved between his legs to wrap her arms casually about his neck. "Not this kiss," she replied with a cunning stare followed with quick press of her lips to his left cheek.

"A peck? Not sure that's much of a favor," he japed.

"That kiss means I am yours, and forever proud to be," she beamed. "If you are kind I will make you a new one." _Gods girl_! She was still such a child at times; though she'd proven herself more capable than he was at some things. He hated to think perhaps it was mistrust or a lack of confidence that prevented her from telling him things…

_Ka-thunk, ka-th-_

His heart stopped. _Telling me things…_? His mind flashed backward to the budding girl he watched so furtively at Kings Landing. And his throat constricted envisioning the woman grown singing out his name; taller, leaner and more beautiful when her finery was subdued.

_Tells me…thh…tell…__**Seventh hell**_!

His chest was drawn mercilessly taut, his heart galloped as he smashed in to her deep blue eyes. "Sandor?" He could see fear flitting through her dilated openings as they cascaded downward to his heaving chest. A swirl of flashes dulled his vision, dragging him in to the foggy unknown…a Tully blue haze.

_Darling_. _Gods in hell_! He inhaled raggedly, stomach grinding to mutely keen at the shadowy pain in his leg. "_Darling!_" dizzying at her scream he lowered himself more stable to ground.

_No_! _Not fucking now_! _I promised_! A storm pressed behind his eyelids as he tried to focus on her. _Oh gods_, he couldn't serve them properly like this. And then a thundering song thrust at his consciousness tearing her away from him. He returned to the tree where Elder Brother had found him, to re-experience his fevered hell near the Trident. There she was kneeling at the edge of the forest as he approached struggling for words:

_She glides when she's happy.  
__She stitches when she's sad.  
__She stomps her tiny foot when in anger;  
__and tells me things with a tiny wordless kiss.  
__Oh gods, did I hurt you Bertie?_

"Sandor, please! What is it?" She was choking her arms around his neck, desperately pleading for answer. With nothing but his hands to guide him, he pulled her fiercely to him, determined not to let go. _Buggering hell_! Was it a memory of his hereafter or the realization or his death? _Elder Brother_, he thought, needing to bury his rebuffs and speak with him about all he had never said.

Sandor battled at the vision for a full and sustaining breath, willing to steal it from her own mouth if needed. "Little bird. I…" _What _was_ it_? He was still sitting upright he realized supported by the dogged strength she bound him in.

"Darling, what is it?" _I don't know_.

"It's nothing," he managed, head pounding and blinking on her dark silky hair fixed in a shaking hand.

"It's not nothing. You're lying," tears threatened. "And you're scaring me, please tell me."

"Its…" _Like all your mysteries_, _I don't fucking know_. "You needn't worry." he panted. "It's the gods that torment me."

"But you don't believe in the gods," she whined. "Are y...you leaving me again?" He had that look twice before and twice he was gone.

"No," his arms tightened around her almost brutally. "You're right, I don't believe." And his breathing started to calm at the thought. She was real, determined and still fighting, his blood still flowed and they were both his. _You're lying_. Startled he searched her belly for proof; _over four months grown_. Perhaps the delusion was real. She had felt like this, looked like this, almost, in death's dream. "How old was Jon in your tree-dream?" he demanded.

Sansa knew what he was asking, having weighted each chapter of their story many times in her heart and head. "He looked to be six. But five, I think, he favored you."

Five years. _Hell I've pissed away more than that_. She nodded, five years was good, good enough. "Tell me about those books you brought."

"The books from the Old Cobbler? One is mostly about medicines, but the title is so long I cannot recall it proper. And the other is about plants, those used for food and healing." _Damn me_! startled again. "What of the books?" He did not know how to answer her truthfully. He was lost in the melee again, facing the fiery flame of an unknown foe.

"I don't know," he confessed helplessly. "Will you trust me, Sansa," his fingers pressing painfully, "to tell you later? When I bloody understand it or even if I don't." His eyes were fearfully frantic, begging her to comprehend, but she did not.

_Trust him_? That was the unending knot of it. She believed he loved her; in the harsh, ill-mannered and dangerous way he did everything. And she knew together they were right, but to say yes would be a lie. She did not trust his temper or her own when she saw those wineskins in the cart. Neither did she trust him not to kill needlessly or to steal for the sake of simplifying their lives. But she trusted him to protect her and their children, and she trusted his truth. _It's the world that's ugly, not me_.

The old gods had given her the hope to keep fighting. But she was the one who decided to set her future upon his veracity as equally as his strength; and she well knew his truths to be an awful contrary sort of comfort. "_I spoke of Petit only once! Tell her, Brother,_" Sandor had shouted. "_It seems so,_" he replied. "_Seems so! Buggering hell! Tell all of it then. There are no lies between us._" There were no lies between them, only much to be understood.

"Of course, my love," she said nodding as steadily as she could.

"I don't deserve you, Bertie Grave. Know that," pulling them both in to the safety of his shaky arms. When the day came he faced the bruises he'd leave on her arms then he'd tell her, all of it.

*******/*******

Sandor would tow the cart, until they reached flat land. Stranger had not been at all agreeable to pulling the weight, but Sandor said with a little barking he would mind.

"Little bird, you ready?" he asked taking a last longing look at quietude of the Isle. Fighting with that damn cart had brought him back to himself and it was some relief to believe there was a future ahead of them.

"I wish we could stay here at the Isle. It really is lovely."

"I know, little bird." She would break him if she continued on this way, for he wanted it too. "Sansa, I can promise you little about what is to come next. But I _will_ do my best. And if you can wait, I will build you another."

"It's only you I've been waiting for, my love," speaking with a delicate hand upon her belly. "Since the night we made our child, since the night you left Kings Landing. You're the knight I've waited for, since I was very young girl named Stark."

"I'm no fucking ser," he scoffed.

"Truly, darling, you are," she responded, gifting that smile, the one that gave him the courage to hope. _Damn Northmen_! Even Stranger snorted and stomped at her silly extravagant words. But his sweet little direwolf had the right of it, he _was_ hers now. So grabbing the hitch he made their way down the hill and out in to the unknown the Stranger had to offer them.

[12.08.31]


	21. Postscript – Songs Are No Farce

_**Disclaimer**: A Song of Ice and Fire series is written by George R. R. Martin. I have no rights only a love of the story and its characters.  
__**A/N**: Heaps of thanks for the help & support; and for hanging in there through my mistakes & challenges. There is more of Bertie and Grave's story in my head, but I need a long break to catch up on SanSan reading. If you like a rough Hound check out _Trust Me_; _Friction_ has a great view of Catelyn watching SanSan unfold, and _In Vino Veritas_–well that Aussie can write!, as can _Natus Draconum_ hoping for more from the dragon.  
Oh, and beta-Molly...you out there? If you are and have time to PM me, I'd be most grateful to get your help.  
__**Warning**: Story is rated M for adult language and content._

* * *

**Postscript – Songs Are No Farce **

**Baedon**

Petyr was plenty angry and would take no food or drink. His outward appearance seemed calm as he listened to Mattie sing 'Rough Husband', but Baedon was not deceived. As much as he wanted to kill Alayne himself for the peril his family now faced, he could not help but admired her for putting Littlefinger in such pink. He was questioning again how Alayne had become such an important get; the man's behavior suggested she might be more than the bastard offspring of one of his fancy whores.

"First you claimed it was fire that stole my sweetling; then perhaps a mountain cat. Your youngest seems to think it was _a bear_. Will you tell me Alayne is now a siren in the bay? Or will it be a disreputable sea captain who took her? A Wildling perchance? I would advise you to say nothing further, _uncle_, until you lay hands on her sweet body."

Baedon told him again about Cryn and about the romantic novel from the Cobbler, found near the heart-tree. He repeated the discovery of the bloody clothing farther up the hillside along with evidence that someone had been living there. But Littlefinger was not truly listening.

At first when Alayne could not be located, Baedon thought she had set fire to alehouse and herself to bring an end to her folly. It was not until well after Cryn came stumbling back with a gash on his head, did he start to think the strong little songbird had fooled them all. _Best if she has been taken by animal_, but the only animal that could have dragged her off with so little evidence was a man, disreputable or not. Once realized Baedon had sought out Reg first, but he swore he'd never touched her, let alone spoke with her outside the Inn. _As long as she's not found alive_, he entreated, his family might be safe.

"Who is that?" Petyr asked.

"The carpenter's wife, Mattie," he replied. "She's singing one of Alayne's songs; they've been dearly missed."

"Alayne's songs? I want to hear the rest."

"I'm not sure she knows them. I've only heard her sing the one."

"Bring Mattie to me in the library. You will come as well." Baedon did not like getting the other Panmen involved, but thought it best to see quickly to his demands so Littlefinger could be on his way.

"Oh, 'Rough Husband' is my favorite. I was only up there because m'husband begged me to sing it," Mattie said giggling. "I sing it all the time at home, but I'm not Alayne. I could _never_ sing as well as your daughter. Her songs are lovely and well… I don't have the words, now do I."

"The song was very good. Perfect for _your_ voice," Petyr encouraged. "What I would like to hear is Alayne's other songs. I think it might ease my worried heart to hear them."

"Well I am not sure I can without Clay and Laurry to help. They know the songs. I'll get it wrong and you won't hear the rest sing. That's the best part, when the others sing along."

"Please, Mattie. Alayne's father should hear them. They needn't be perfect, just what you know."

"Well…surely you're right Baedon. But you're such a proper man," she added to Petyr. "Surely…surely, I could try 'Oh So Long'. But never 'Wild Wind Blows', only Alayne can sing it proper. Should I try now?"

"Please, I would be most obliged for your kindness." By the tone of Littlefinger's words, anyone would think he was the most gallant and reasonable man in all the seven kingdoms, but Baedon new to distrust that tone. "That's enough," he said when the song was near finish. "Thank you, very much. You sing beautifully, Mattie. We'll not keep you from your husband," he added guiding her out the door.

"What it is Petyr?" Baedon liked this new calculating look even less. The song had told Petyr something; something he himself had missed.

"Have you seen a man here with scars?" Baedon gave him a questioning look, trying to understand. "Burn scars! Hideous burns; covering half his face."

"I, ah, only remember one man with burns. A Brother, here twice I think."

"One of the Warrior's Sons?"

"I don't know his talent. He was a silent Brother," choosing to say as little as possible. He did recall the service the Brother had done the girl. Burying the thought, knowing he'd likely loose hold of his temper if seeking Elder Brother's involvement. He'd been a friend to most of the townsfolk since before the start of last season.

"From the Quiet Isle then?"

"Yes. What it is Petyr?" _Gods please_, _do not let her be found alive_.

"You'll take a boat to the Quiet Isle tomorrow to play escort to my party."

"I cannot! I have work here that cannot wait." There was no way in hell he was leaving his family now.

"You will," he imposed firmly. "Unless you would prefer to send Molls in your stead." He met Petyr's eye with a silent seething challenge. He did not like to push the man, but dared not turn away. "My men which you've met are the more civilized of the horde. And after the long, _lonely_ journey we've had, I wouldn't recommend it, dear uncle."

Thankfully Mary and the children were already prepared. It had been impossible to hide that something was wrong from the two eldest children. He was proud they had their mother's fine mind and admitted ironically, Alayne herself had played no small part in the time she had been with them. Her stories were not as romantic as her songs and she always demanded that they think critically, no matter the topic or their age. _Alayne_… _Who the hell was she_?

Littlefinger steadily held his gaze, giving him a malignant smile to let him know he was perfectly serious. Baedon silently committed to send three children away in the morning: the carpenter was no longer an option, so one to the Lefric's and two to the Old Cobbler. He knew their silence could be trusted.

"Do you have any idea how much your ineptitude has cost me?" Petyr asked caustically. _Cost him_? Rebuilding the alehouse would cost a fortune. "That was lady-Sansa-Stark-_Lannister_ you let get away. And I _will_ have her back!"

_Fucking hell_! _Stark_? He should have seen it,_ the eyes_, _Tully blue_. He knew of Littlefinger's obsession, the entire family had made japes about extending far beyond his reach, but he never expected the bastard girl was a lady. Petyr's reach was wide and far now. And the fact that his nephew was sharing such detail confirmed the youngest children would leave tonight, with Mary and Hugo soon to follow.

"I will have full payment before I go," he braved. "I am sure there is someone here who can see to the note if you do not have the coin."

"Oh you will?" he queried with a dark gaze. "You have the calculating mind of your mother and surprisingly, the balls of a bull, like your _father_."

"If we are agreed I will go. But what do you expect me to find at the Isle?"

"The Hound."

*******/*******

**Petyr**

He'd been making the rounds with his inquiries. Petyr was fed up with waiting and needed to speak with Foeman. He never understood men who took so much time with whores, _as if I would touch any of these women_. The idiots never realized how very little coin could buy in shitty little holes like this, or in any hole. He was still sore about how Baedon backed him in to a corner, demanding money owed; it would not be easily appointed.

_There's the rogue_. "Hope you've had your fill. You leave tomorrow. Baedon will accompany you and your men to the Quiet Isle," Petyr instructed.

"And where will you be, my lord?"

"I will remain here. I need to get new word to my home in the Eyrie; I _do_ miss it so," he said falsely. "We need more men. It would seem your old commander's brother has my daughter in hand." That fat ridiculous cow had told him all he needed to know.

"Then the bitch is dead, or as good as. Best to leave it," he said displaying the few rotten teeth he had left.

"No, Foeman. You are no smarter than your master was. The brothers are as much alike as they are vastly different." Petyr was weary of having to explain every little nuance to these cretins, but they did serve his purpose when extra effort was needed. "If my daughter is not found or any direct evidence of where she can be found, then Baedon need not return."

"As you wish, _Lord_."

"I _wish_ for you to make it look like an accident. There is no need for extravagance; I am not Gregor."

"No, my lord, you are _not_. And the Brothers?"

"I would prefer to leave that to your discretion, but that would hardly be wise. Be firm in your inquiries and very discrete. And do not kill anyone. I will not have the Faith Militant calling for my head." Petyr knew there was some risk with this directive, but he could detract himself from these heathens easily enough. "And before Baedon is dispatched, I would like to you tell him who is father is."

"His father? Doesn't mean shit to me."

"No, but it does to _me_! I would like his last breath to be soured with the thought." Petyr sent him off with a final task, seeing his own purpose approach. "Ah, Lamb, I do hope you remember me it has been many years."

"I remember you Baelish," it would seem the displeasure was mutual. "If you'd like a drink, fine. But if you're here for gossip you needn't have bothered. We know how to keep our mouths shut here in the Pans."

"Well, yes to the drink then. Would you happen to have any redheaded whores about?" he requested thoughtfully. "Like many men, I have a taste for their company."

_THE END_

[12.08.31]


End file.
